


your brother, King of Derse

by britishparty



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Derse/Prospit Royalty, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Gen, also a sequel is already being thought out, even if different, so fuck this is totally inspired by callmearctus' royalty fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 07:43:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9374963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/britishparty/pseuds/britishparty
Summary: You do not think of your brother, King of Derse, bound to the throne by stronger magics than you could ever hope to break. You do not think of yourself, tied to the throne by nothing but love, and still equally unable to leave.You think of Dirk, who has nightmares haunted by gods. You think of Roxy, with her smile and her laughter and her steel. You think of their future, away from Derse, where the stars would shine and the sun would rise in the morning.You wonder if Roxy is a morning person, and you laugh.





	1. nothing but love and chess

You look at your brother, King of Derse. He is drowning in the violet robes befitting of his title; the only pale thing to him is his face. The violent vividness of his clothes is only offset further by the almost-black of the plumes of crow feathers.

There is something oddly tragic in his crow-feather collar. Perhaps it is the death of his beloved messengers; perhaps it is the knowledge every single feather was plucked by his hand.

Your brother, King of Derse, lifts his gloved hand and waves to the black-shelled, cold-hearted carapacians that are now his subjects.

His crown is black, and heavy. He has told you this is the only time he will wear it.

Beneath his gloves, his hands are cut and bleeding. You do not need Sight to know this; you found him, a week ago, crying as the crows fought him beak and talon for their feathers. He looked at you, but did not stop tears nor task.

Your brother, King of Derse, is bound to his throne by stronger magics than you could ever hope to break.

The Dersites before you cheer. You wish you could forget that they are cheering for the death of the old king, not the reign of the new one.

Derse is not a kind place. You wish you could forget this, also.

Sometimes, when Derse is at its darkest and you have not seen - nor Seen - light, you nearly wish you could forget you loved your brother, King of Derse. It would be easier.

But even when the gods who do not love you whisper poison in your ears, some things are not so easy to forget.

So you stand, in your pretty purple dress, and blink your pretty purple eyes, and smile your pretty white smile, and do not say your ugly thoughts.

Your brother, King of Derse, looks so out of place on this pedestal. He is bright, too bright for Derse; pale skin and violently purple clothes paint him a target, not a king.

All bright except his crow-feather collar.

It is tradition, for Dersite kings to destroy the thing they love most and wear it as a symbol of their ruthlessness. And by tradition, you mean necessity.

And by necessity, you mean spell.

You are lucky your brother, King of Derse, is such a good liar. A necklace made of your teeth would have spoiled the meaning of your presence beside him.

Of course, he cannot lie to you. He has never had a reason; you are of the same blood, same mind. Twins born from no Dersite subject, no hard-shelled servant.

Your brother, King of Derse, grips your hand on his arm as he turns away from the celebration. He looks cold, confronting. It is not a mask you have ever seen him use before.

He leads you into the castle itself. Away from his subjects. Away from his fate.

A carapacian servant stops to take his crown, and he seems far too relieved as he steps away quickly and continues, taking you with him still.

"Your Majesty," you start, because he does not look like your brother, King of Derse.

He just looks like the King of Derse, and it is scaring you.

At your voice, a tiny chink appears in his mask. His eyes meet yours, and he is afraid. So very afraid.

"Please, sister mine," he drawls instead, "call me Mr. Strider."

Your brother, King of Derse, cannot lie to you.

"Dave," you try again. "Dave Strider, King of Derse, my brother."

There is an odd one out. Neither of you point it out.

"Ah," and Dave Strider, King of Derse, gives you his most condescending smile. "There is Ms. Lalonde."

"Dave," you hiss. Your fingertips dig into his arm as he steers you towards his rooms. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," your brother tells you with that same smile. As if you cannot read him, cannot pry his head open with only your eyes and see everything that makes him tick.

To your annoyance, he slides his sunglasses back on. Another mask, another defence.

"Oh, of course." You allow him this. He is not gifted with Sight, but since he was claimed heir he has been particularly insightful. It is not wise to argue, not where Derse will see you. Particularly not where their gods will see you.

Perhaps there is a magic, put there by the gods, that chokes his words in his throat. In Derse, that would not be surprising.

The Dersite guards open the doors to his rooms before he can reach for the handle. He seems frustrated, somehow, the tiniest tension at your side-- but you feel only grateful. Anything to save him the pain of having to use his hands.

You do not let go of his arm even when the doors close behind you. Neither does he.

A fire starts in the hearth. You hate that he flinches.

Against your side, your brother sags into you like an old armchair, comfortable and familiar. It warms some small, cold thing inside you to see him relax.

"I can't leave," he says faintly.

You stiffen. Your face cracks into a smile, an instinct you have developed to protect yourself from Dersite cruelty. Something like a laugh claws its way out of your throat, and your brother's eyes go wide behind his sunglasses.

"Of course," you say. "Of course."

He mistakes your anger for disbelief.

“The gods told me,” he insists. “I _saw._ My skin will go black, my eyes'll be white, I won't speak English. It's the gods, their fault."

“Don’t call them gods when no one’s around to hear,” you remind him. “Besides, don’t be idiotic. I would’ve Seen it by now if it were true.”

“I can’t _not_ call them gods,” he says.

“Of course you can.” Despite your arguing, you still haven’t stepped away, still haven’t let go. You feel the tremor in his arm, the uncertainty. “Saying it only empowers them.”

“You don’t get it.” Your brother, King of Derse, turns to you and grabs you by the shoulders. Distantly, you realize he’s shaking. “I _can’t."_

It clicks into place, bones in their sockets.

Oh. “Oh, Dave,” you murmur, knocking his hands away to reach up and brush your thumb across his jaw. Your voice is tender even to your own ears, and for an instant you pity him.

At the first sign of pity, he shuts off. His face turns into a confident grin, so unnaturally natural, and he is less your brother than you have ever seen.

“Oh Rose,” he replies, voice dischordanantly teasing in the dim light. He steps back, and the room grows colder with the distance. “Oh, darling sister mine. Oh, Ms. Lalonde.”

You are tired of his shields.

“Dave,” you start, grabbing his wrist before he can escape, “don’t do this. Not now.”

He wrenches his hand free. “Do what?” he asks, and the question sounds almost genuine. “I am focused on nothing but my hopeless situation, that shit’s so hopeless the prison guards don’t bother to keep its cell door locked. So fucking hopeless they may as well leave the door open cause this situation ain’t going anywhere but the gallows.”

“Now is not the _time,"_  you hiss. You reach for him again but he practically dances out of your reach, still smiling that damning, _cocky_ smile.

“It’s always the time,” he says. “Got so much time, it’s like I can’t keep track of it anymore. I am overflowing with time. I’m a fucking hourglass here Rosey, I’m an hourglass filled with rocks, got all the time in the world.”

You fall still. You don’t know how to stop him-- you never have, he runs on like a wind-up toy who’s got ahold of his own key. You’ll just be the one to pick him up and put him back together when he runs out of table and smashes on the floor.

An idea strikes you. With speed even Dave would be proud of, you lunge and grab hold of the crow-feather collar.

Your brother, King of Derse, freezes in an instant.

You pull yourself closer, as if your hold on the feathers is the only thing keeping him still.

“Dave, please. You can’t run away, you have to face this.” You take a deep breathe. “Face me.”

You are the only thing he has, in these dark halls, surrounded by the black carapacians he calls _subjects._  He looks at you because he has nowhere else to look.

“I’m scared, Rose,” and the words are an exhale, a whisper, but that’s okay. The monsters that surround Derse might be listening. It is best to be quiet.

“I won’t force you to say anything, Dave,” and the lie is bitter and sharp on your tongue, “but you can trust me. You can tell me anything.”

It is the cruelest type of manipulation. You hate yourself more with every word, every syllable. You tell him his secrets are his to keep and bully him into giving them up. He will stop trusting you, eventually. You hope _eventually_ is after you're out of this wretched place.

“The gods told me I was weak.” He hates the words as he says them, but you do not let go of his gaze. You pull the words from him like you’re in a war, fighting for every scrap. “They told me I would fail in trying to escape, in trying to _live.”_

“I won't let you,” you assure him.

“They said you'd fail first.” Dave's voice does not rise above a whisper.

“I won't,” you promise. “Not before you. I wouldn't leave you.”

You wouldn't. You are the spare; Derse doesn't _need_ you, it needs kings. You are here to keep the king from breaking. You could leave at any time, with only a few orders and a whisper to Prospit or Skaia. But you wouldn't, without him.

“They said you haven't Seen in months,” Dave admits. “That you couldn't, anymore.”

“I-- I still See, just not as much.”

You won't tell him the truth, that your Sight has been blind for nearly a year. You assume it will return, if you please the gods or get off Derse. One or the other. Or maybe if you just get lucky.

“Rose, I’m scared.” He grabs for your hands, clings to them like he did when you were children.

Those are your fondest memories; holding hands with your brother, before he was King of Derse, and wandering the castle halls like they were yours to explore. Now, the halls _are_ yours, and they have never felt less like home.

“I’d be surprised if you weren’t,” you tell him. You have never been one for kindness; the truth is so much better, but perhaps this once you can dull the blade of your honesty.

The leather of his gloves is cool. Gingerly you lift his hands, hold them up as you slide his gloves off. You are careful; he is already damaged, he does not need to suffer any more.

His fingertips are calloused; years of sword fighting, surprise ambushes for his training, have long since beaten out the soft hands you remember from your childhood.

It is so strange, to both of you. Here you stand, the King and his _sister,_  not looked at because she was female and Derse does not do queens. You have long since agreed that you are smarter, sharper, more ruthless; Dave is stronger physically, perhaps, from being trained to fight, but you taught yourself to wield your silver tongue in the place of the steel blade they would not give you. Dave is soft in a way Derse will not tolerate, has refused to tolerate-- and you are his shield, his sister. You use your steel eyes and silver tongue to protect him.

The King and the _spare._  How bitter you are, both of you.

“I don’t want to be k--” Dave starts, but breaks off coughing. A shadow leaps from his mouth, smoke in the air.

 _Don’t,_ it spells out. A warning, from the gods that have stolen your brother and replaced him with the King of Derse. The smoke reforms into a dagger, thin and transparent, and plunges itself into your chest.

Dave lurches towards you just as you flinch; the smoke dissolves in the air as it hits your skin, gone in an instant. Your brother clings to your shoulders, shivering.

“Oh,” you whisper. That’s how they’ve bound him: magic laced with threats, not at him - he would never care for himself the way he cares for you - but at you.

“I won’t let them,” he says. “If I play the part, they can’t hurt you. They _promised."_

You do not tell him that promises mean little, to the monsters that surround Derse.

Your life is staked on such a promise. The thought is terrifying.

“We need to get out,” you say, more to yourself than to him.

Dave looks at you despairingly. “We can’t,” he says. “I can’t.”

You look at him with steel in your eyes, silver in your mouth. “There’s a way,” you say, hoping you sound more determined than you feel.

You don’t know how, but there must be a way to save you and your brother, King of Derse.

You have no other choice.

 

* * *

 

 

You wake up with the gears already turning.

This is not so unusual as it should be. You are not a morning person, but on Derse that doesn’t matter-- here, it is always dark. Too often, recently, you have woken up plotting and thinking.

You know where your talents lie. You won’t trick yourself into thinking you are not a schemer; even without Sight you were insightful, even without light you were hopeful.

But now, you have Seen. It has been more than a year, now, since your Sight went; it is a relief to See again, even if what you’ve Seen may only cause more problems.

You Saw, through a crow’s eyes, a dark room filled with shadows. It was hard to hear what they were saying, but then again you are a Seer, not a listener. Their skin was completely green-- except for one. A single Dersite carapacian commanded them, explained to them in great depths the plot. She wore a black dress and a wide hat; you imprint these details in your mind.

They mean to kill your brother, King of Derse.

This is-- not as frightening as it should be. They will be the third, and with luck as unsuccessful as the first two.

 _Third time’s the charm,_ you heard Dave say, weeks ago, when the second would-be assassin was dragged, body limp and bleeding, away from Dave and his scared eyes, Dave and his bloody dagger.

You are the spare royalty of Derse, the unloved twin sister, and you will do _anything_ to protect your brother, King of Derse.

Derse would be smart to fear you. It is a pity, then, that you are overlooked so easily. You doubt they would notice your absence at the king’s side, if you were suddenly taken ill.

Well, you have never known carapacians to be particularly intelligent.

The days pass; the date you heard whispered in your Sight draws closer. You begin to fake chills around the servants, the guards, the guests. You sniffle, pull purple handkerchiefs from your pocket, wipe your nose. Dave is not fooled; that’s okay, he’ll understand when the time comes.

You are informed, three days before the date, that your brother, King of Derse, is to hold a grand dinner with many prominent Dersite figures. He assures you, when you ask, that his duties will not be difficult. He is expected to welcome the guests, give a small speech, invite them to partake in his meal, and then sit silently in his too-big chair at the head of the long, long table and eat.

Two days before the date, you sit in on a rehearsal. It is only you, Dave, and a Dersite advisor. The carapacian’s back remains turned to you as you memorize all the details: Dave’s place, his words, his walk, his tone.

That night, you order a potion made from the castle’s alchemist. You say your throat is getting hoarse, and ask for a potion that will restore it to what it was last week. You know such a potion does not exist; instead, you are given a potion that - if you add a piece of your hair - will change your voice for a few hours. The alchemist does not tell you, but you know: if you were to add Dave’s hair, your voice would become his.

They underestimate you by miles.

The day before, you explain to Dave quietly that he must not attend the dinner. You will not tell him why; if you do, he won’t let you go. It is a sickening type of manipulation; a small part of you wishes Dave would hate you for it, but after showing him your desperation, he agrees with little reluctance.

Three hours before the dinner, Dave appears in your rooms. You welcome him in, smile at the guards, and close the doors behind him. The guards make no move to help you, despite opening the doors for him in the first place.

With all the ease of a long-practiced art, Dave disappears off through a small servant's’ passage in the direction of his own rooms. You will take the same route back, later; you are thankful Dave trusts you so.

Two hours before the dinner, you strip down. You open a drawer in the very bottom of your wardrobe, and pull out a stolen copy of Dave’s dinner robes. You thank the gods you are flat-chested, to some extent; the robes look almost natural on you, despite the difference in your figure and Dave’s.

In your washroom, there is a small bottle, also stolen from Dave. With it, you arrange your hair differently; you have spent hours practicing this, making it look shorter, fluffier. By the time you are finished, it is just barely different from Dave’s; a little longer, perhaps, but easily passable.

One hour before the dinner, you place red lenses in your eyes. They are smuggled in from Skaia, and were not easy to get despite your status. You manage two mouthfuls of the potion before you grimace and hide the rest beneath your robes.

After the lenses are in, you glance in the mirror. You look an exact copy of Dave, in almost every way imaginable. You have never been so happy that your brother, King of Derse, is a twin.

Ten minutes before the dinner, you leave your rooms with a smile, and wave over your shoulder at a sister who isn’t there.

The guards close the door behind you.

The first thing your advisor greets you with is, “You are missing your crow feathers, Your Majesty.”

You offer him the most condescending, shielded smirk you have ever done, and pray the potion works, or else this will all be very embarrassing. “Look, I didn’t want to get soup on it. Protect the crows or something, right? Those birds should be so protected they don’t have to open their wings to fly, they don’t even have to fly cause we’ve laid out this whole lavish feast and we’ve got beetles feeding them grapes and shit. Protect 'em, man.”

Your voice sounds strange to your ears, deeper and not quite Dave's. Is this what he sounds like to himself?

The mini-speech is not your best Dave impression, but it works. The advisor’s eyes narrow, but he bows deeply.

“The gods will be displeased,” you hear him murmur under his breath as you stride away, towards the two grand doors separating the lobby from the guests.

Oh boy, would they be. A woman - a _spare_ \- dressed as a king, with his smile and his voice and his clothes. In your head, you borrow some cockiness from your brother and flip off the heavens.

The guards throw open the doors, and expectantly thirty pairs of eyes latch onto your face.

Moment of truth. You hold your breath, feeling fear run through your veins and freeze you in place. Who will call you out on it first? Who will tell their King he looks _different,_ tonight-- like a woman?

You overestimate even the rash courage of Dersites. They are silent, looking at you and waiting.

“Welcome,” you tell them, with a smile you have stolen from your twin’s face, “esteemed guests, to the most grandiose dinner party your asses will ever see.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Dave’s advisor flinch. That’s alright, though-- Dave does talk like this, act like this. You know you’ve played the part when your guests laugh, and begin to filter into the lobby, where appetizers and champagne are sprawled on tables throughout the hall.

A group of carapacians - female? It’s hard to tell, sometimes - drift towards you. With all the manners you know your brother has, you tip back a glass of champagne like it’s a shot and smirk at them. To your regret, they seem to take this as a positive sign.

“Where’s your chaperone?” One of them, with the biggest smile and the most flirtatious voice you have heard in your life, sidles up and bats her eyes. She doesn’t have eyelashes.

You raise your eyebrows. “My sister, you mean?”

She rolls her eyes. “Who else? Whenever you bring her along, she always hovers by your side and glares everyone away.”

You force yourself to smile, but you feel like choking her. “Sorry, Rosey’s like that. She’s a very jealous woman, I can never shake her off.”

Emboldened, two more approach.

“Your Majesty,” one says, smiling, “if you’ll let me-- why do you even keep her around, then? She’s not worth much, not like you. You can’t even marry her!”

They all titter like that’s a brilliant joke.

Your fingers clamp down on the glass in your hand so hard you swear you hear something cracking. Or maybe that’s just your smile, because it seems to have broken on your face and now it won’t come off.

“She’s my sister,” you say with no attempt to squash the anger in your voice, “and being a woman does not make her _less_. As Derse’s hunters have yet to procure a human woman for my wife, she is the only family I have. If you’ll excuse me.”

The women go quite silent. You turn away from them, pass your glass off to a servant, and head towards the dining hall’s doors. Gods, let this dinner start already. How does Dave _stand_ it?

“My guests!” You call over them, shoving the anger aside so you can pull out your Dave grin. “I welcome you now, to share in my meal!”

The words are formal, too formal for Dave, and for once you curse your silver tongue and gesture for the doors to be opened.

The beginning of the dinner is uneventful; guests are seated in their places, and you take your place at the head of the table. You stand, clinking your knife against your plate like a dinner gong in a move you know Dave has done many a time. Your speech is short, eloquent and just Dave enough to make the advisor grit his teeth and smile.

As you sit down, you wonder how they will try to kill you. With daggers beneath the table? With askance for a private word, away from the crowds, where their men have replaced the guards? With poison?

Five seats down, on your left, you notice the woman, with her wide hat and dress -- now, in this light, you can see it is made of dark, star-speckled velvet -- who you remember Seeing. Is she here to do the dirty work alone, then? What happened to her green friends; they couldn't pass for carapacians, not in this setting. Are they lurking? Hanging back?

The first course is set before you. Soup-- traditional as a starting course, but far too easy to poison. The carapacian woman you're watching out of the corner of your eye glances over with far too much interest in your bowl. There is an eight on her hat, in a white circle.

“Hey,” you call out, and at the sound of your voice the table falls silent. “Let's play a game to spice up the night.”

There are murmurs of confusion. You slap on your smirk and wrap your hands around the bowl.

“Pass five to the left,” you announce, and hand your bowl of soup to the Archagent, sitting next to you.

He gives you a look of blank confusion, but passes it down.

You gesture with a lazy flick of your wrist at the person five seats down on your right. “Come on, pass me.”

And it goes like that, bowls of soup being passed five people to the left. Most of the soup is different; your cooks cater to the nobles more than they ought to. When the shuffle is complete, you tell everyone to eat, and delight in the look of frustration on the face of the traitorous Dersite woman. You notice, too, that she doesn’t eat.

You can play this game like chess-- tonight, you are the _queen,_  here to protect your king even though Derse doesn't do queens.

They underestimate you by miles.

The next course goes three right. You have made a game of your survival, passing off poisoned food to the Dersite agents you know are either of little consequence or would turn against your brother, King of Derse, in a heartbeat.

Derse would love you, if you were truly Dave. You are ruthless enough; you are fighting for your survival with your smirk and your games and your laughter, and you are winning.

The third course goes six left; your dish is set before an agent who is whispering to the woman with the wide hat and velvet dress. Perhaps he is uninvolved; it is not your concern, at the moment. Derse will not care if innocents die, but they will praise your ingenuity-- no, they will praise your brother’s. That stings, for a moment, before you remember it means you and Dave both survive.

The fourth dish set before you is the last. It is dessert; gods, how you do not want to eat it. It’s something that smells disgustingly sweet, and also distinctly of apple and cinnamon.

You suppose cinnamon must be good at disguising poison, with its smell.

“How about five left?” you suggest to your guests, who are waiting to see what you will say. “To finish off the evening as we started it.”

There is general agreement; why wouldn’t there be? You’re the king, tonight. Unsurprisingly, two of your guests look quite ill; a carapacian three seats to your right, and the agent six to your left.

Your horrifyingly sweet dish is whisked away by the people on either side, eager to be of assistance to you. Instead, a much more appealing tart is placed in front of you.

You pour some of the voice-altering potion you still have into your drink, and wink at the carapacian half the table down who notices. He smiles politely back at you and lifts a finger to his lips. You drain the rest of your drink, and ask a passing server for a refill.

You glance over at the carpacian five seats to your left. She is looking at you not at all subtly with a small smile on her face, and ignoring the cinnamon monstrosity on the plate before her. You can’t really fault her for not eating it, this time.

Casually, before the Archagent begins to eat, you tap on his shoulder to get your attention. You nod at the woman, who does not take her eyes off you.

“What’s her name?” you ask quietly. “I haven’t seen her around before.”

“She goes by Snowman,” is the short reply, accompanied by a curled lip and a glare. “Surely you’ve heard of her?”

You frown. Should Dave know her? “No,” you say, after a pause. “I don’t think so, at least.”

Snowman’s eyes narrow, but she gives you a small nod. Finally, she turns back to regard her plate with something almost bordering amusement.

“Say, Archagent,” you say, without taking your eyes off Snowman, “would you be up for a walk after all this? I need some fresh air, but I’m not sure I feel safe.”

You need to keep attention away from Dave, the real Dave. If Snowman’s still paying you any attention, she’ll follow you rather than going to look for Dave in his rooms.

Dave’s Archagent agrees without hesitation. You’ve just provided an excuse for him to suck up to you; of course he’ll do it.

You wish you were not delighted by the way you can play this world like it’s your game. Oh, the fun you would’ve had as Queen.

After dessert is finished, you thank your guests and order the doors opened. The carapacians filter back into the lobby, and out into the night. A few try to make conversation with you; you make your excuses, grab the Archagent, and take a different route out of the castle, into the gardens.

On your walk - with minimal conversation - you see a total of three green-skinned creatures. They are hiding, but not well at all. Upon seeing the Archagent beside you, two of them disappear and the third glares. You glare back, and stick out your tongue for good measure.

The Archagent, after noticing them, immediately rushes you back inside and to Dave’s rooms. He does not leave you until the guards outside assure him they will be particularly vigilant.

They open the doors to Dave’s room, and you are thankful they do not look inside, but simply close the doors behind you.

Sitting in front of his fireplace, with a blanket around his shoulders and a book in his lap, is your twin brother.

You cough, hoping your voice will change back soon.

He startles. His eyes are wide without his sunglasses, and it makes you ache to see your brother, King of Derse, look at you with such fear.

“Oh,” he says, and despite his frightened expression his voice is flat. “I guess my insecurities have finally come to haunt me.”

“Dave, don’t be moronic,” you say. “It’s only me.”

You sit down beside him, and try not to notice the way he inches away from you.

“Am I a time-traveller now?” he asks, and tries to smile.

You can only roll your eyes. “It’s Rose. Your twin?”

The tension in the drawn-up line of his shoulders disappears immediately. His face is overcome with disbelief, and then he laughs.

“You make a pretty good me,” he says, his tone completely changed. “On that note, have you ever thought about making out with yourself?”

You wrinkle your nose in disgust and Dave howls with laughter. He laughs so hard you have to grab his book to stop it falling into the fireplace.

“Sorry,” he says, when he’s recovered. “You really do look like me, though. It’s freaky.”

“Yes, thank you,” you say, raking your fingers through your hair in an attempt to get it flatter, back to _your_ hair. “I’m well aware I can fool an entire dinner party, and your Archagent.”

He grins wider, if possible. “Is that really what you did?”

You nod, and open your mouth to explain why.

You don’t get the chance, because your brother, King of Derse, is leaning in to hug you, blanket and nightclothes and all.

“I _so_ did not want to do that shit,” he tells you. “Fucking nope. Thanks, Rosey. I don’t know why you did it, but thank you.”

You are so touched by his sincerity that you forget to hug him back. Instead, you blurt, “Somebody wanted you dead tonight. I had to stop them without you knowing.”

Dave freezes in your lap. Slowly he draws back, looks at you. “I would’ve rather died than put you in danger,” he tells you. Cliché, but honest.

“I’m fine,” you say, and offer him your best smirk. “Takes more than that to kill a Strider.”

“Your voice is changing back,” he tells you.

“Oh, dear. Ruined my punchline.” You shrug, privately relieved you sound like yourself again, and glance around. “Do you have one of my spare nightdresses lying around? I need a shower to get my hair back to normal.”

Dave smiles, but you can tell he’s still worried.

“Check my bottom drawer,” he tells you, and jerks his head towards his wardrobe. “Got some of your shit in there.”

You find a complete set of your nightclothes. Beneath the nightclothes, there is also a dress. And some spare black lipstick. And a headband. You look suspiciously over to him, but he shrugs.

“When you told me not to go tonight, I knew something was up. I grabbed some stuff I thought you might need.” Despite being an asshole to his kingdom, despite being a Dersite king, your brother is decidedly kind.

You do not tell him this, but you do place a kiss in his nest of soft hair.

“Yeah, yeah.” He waves you off, but can’t hide his smile. “You saved me from potential assassins. Go get changed, I don’t want to hear myself speak with your voice ever again.”

You laugh, a bright thing in the dimness of his room.

You do not tell him of your chess match against his kingdom, when you were the black queen fighting black pawns. You will never tell him how clearly you saw the board, or your place upon it. He would expect you to be his queen always, and Derse would murder him for it.

They underestimate you by miles, but that gives you so much room to grow.

 

* * *

 

 

Your Sight is blind for four more months, and you and your brother, King of Derse, suffer for it.

Dave is wounded and out of action for six weeks with a deep gash in his shoulder, which he got during the fifth attempt on his life. One attempt is made on yours, but by who you never learn; you are concerned it was Snowman, who you’re willing to bet was smarter than she pretended to be.

A legion of Dersite hunters return with two orphaned children stolen from Skaia-- their next heirs. Dave is panicked, to see they think he will not last long. He makes up for this by purposefully ignoring the children and pretending they do not exist, and gives them a room on the opposite side of the castle. The hunters do not return with a woman for Dave to marry. Privately, you are grateful.

The children’s names are Dirk and Roxy. You learn they are fourteen years old, and act eighteen. Thankfully, it was not your hunters that orphaned them-- that happened long ago, too long for them to remember. They have been passed from relative to relative to orphanage to street, twins clinging desperately to life in a way that reminds you too strongly of you and Dave.

“I’m glad you’re here now,” you admit to Roxy one night, when you’ve forgotten that she is only fourteen and not built to shoulder your burdens. “We -- Dave and I -- we were ignored by our predecessors. We were mostly kept out of sight, out of mind. The king didn’t visit us, talk to us.” Except for-- except you don’t want to mention the _except,_  because that’s Dave’s story, and if they hear it they’ll hear it from him.

“Dave doesn't visit us or talk to us,” Dirk says from across the room. His mind is like yours, sharp and deadly and you fear he is like you and Dave, but in the worst way. He is smart like you but fragile like Dave, and the expectations for his reign will destroy him. And that, like you and Dave, is why they took Roxy.

“Dave is scared of being deemed... unnecessary,” you tell Dirk, knowing he will hear how carefully your words are being chosen. “He’s scared of you, because you’re a sign Derse doesn’t want him.”

“I don’t want Derse,” Dirk says, and turns his back to lean over the mess of metal he has somehow acquired.

Roxy sighs, next to you on the couch. She is the best parts of you and Dave, if you had to say-- Dave’s intelligence, your steel will. She is not sharp enough to hurt herself, but sharp enough to survive; she is not fragile, but strong enough to withstand. She, like you, would make a fine queen.

Pity Derse does not do queens.

“We want out,” she says to you, like you could somehow provide an out. Like it is not the same thing you have wanted since you arrived.

“I know, Roxy,” you tell her. “Dave and I have been trying since day one.”

At this, she seems to regard you with new interest. She doesn’t say anything, though, just looks away and stares into the fire for a long, long while. You join her, enjoying the feeling of an empty mind as you look at the flames and listen to Dirk’s tinkering.

“You know, I didn’t have a last name,” she says, out of the blue. It is a strange subject to pick up so quickly.

“No?” You pretend not to be surprised. Even you and Dave were old enough to know yours, when you were taken.

“I do now,” she says, and grins wide. “I’m Roxy Lalonde, and Derse better be ready for me, baby!”

That is--

You don’t know how to say it.

Instead, you smile and hug her tight to your chest. You are proud, and happy-- unbelievably happy, that this beautiful creature with her kind eyes and bright words would accept you as something she wants.

Even Dirk has turned around, the shock clear on his face, to stare at Roxy.

“You can’t do that,” he protests. “Dirk Lalonde sounds terrible.”

You can’t help yourself; you start laughing.

Dirk glares, but does not seem hurt. He turns back to his work, but not before you see him mouth the name, over and over, like he could make it belong to him by repetition.

Roxy returns to looking into the fire, and you do not relax your hold on her until long after she has fallen asleep. She is still a child, and not used to Derse’s near-permanent darkness despite her month here.

You lift her up carefully, and take her into her room attached to this parlour. You and Dave had a similar room, eleven years ago; a living space attached to two bedrooms, each with their own washroom. And on the far side of the castle, too. Out of the way.

You tuck her into bed, unable to stop smiling at this small thing that has brought happiness to you with only a name. You have never wanted children-- but a little sister, you think you could appreciate her.

On your way towards the door, you are drawn to Dirk. You cannot make heads nor tails of what he is doing, but his hands are certain and his brow is furrowed.

“Go to sleep soon, Dirk,” you remind him, hands ghosting over his shoulders as you press a kiss into his hair. “You can’t run on chocolate milk, no matter how hard you try.”

“Nightmares,” he murmurs, hardly listening.

Ah. You have them, too. Perhaps Dirk is too similar to you; Roxy and Dave both sleep unhindered. You’re willing to bet your nightmares aren’t as bad as Dirk’s.

“They get better,” you promise. Not by much, but you think Dirk will take any improvement. “Sleep well, Dirk Lalonde.”

He jerks out of his working trance at that, just in time to see you smile as you let yourself out of their room.

Once you are out, you sprint the length of the castle. Several carapacians give you odd stares. It is hard to run in a dress, but you do anyway. All the way across the castle, halls and halls and corners and lack of oxygen, because you were never trained for this.

You burst into Dave’s room unannounced, slamming the doors off the walls so they nearly close behind you. The guards startle to alertness, and reluctantly close the doors the rest of the way.

“We need to leave,” you tell him breathlessly.

Your brother, King of Derse, snorts from his position, sprawled on the couch. “Tell me something we haven’t known for eleven years.”

“Dirk,” you tell him, breathing hard between the words, “and Roxy, too. For them.”

He narrows his eyes at you. You’re not sure why; what’s so wrong with caring for two children who have been put in your care?

“Why not for us?” A challenge. _Why are you abandoning me?_ A plea.

“Still for us, too.” You cross the room, plop down by his feet on the couch. “But-- Dave, please, spend time with them. This is what the old king did to us.”

He freezes at that. “You,” he says stiffly. “What he did to you.”

Oh, right. The old king had perhaps ignored you, you and Dave both, but when he did pay attention to Dave it was only to fight, to train. At least, that’s what he _called_ it.

At that point, your brother, King of Derse, was more of a punching bag.

“But they’re good,” you tell him. “They’re _children,_  Dave.”

He glares, but you can tell he’s not as resistant to the idea as he pretends.

“Come with me tomorrow,” you tell him. “We can go whenever you don’t have-- stuff to do. They ought to at least see you every now and then, Dave.”

“I wouldn’t know what to do,” your brother, King of Derse, admits quietly. “What to say.”

“That’s okay.” You smile encouragingly. “Bring a book, sit and read. Be there for them.”

“I’m scared of getting it wrong, Rose.” His voice does not shake - he has been King for too long, for it to shake now - but you hear the fear regardless.

In the public eye, as the _leader,_  Dave never has time for second chances. Being King of Derse does not require much, right now, when the war is stagnant and the carapacians are content to hurt and maim and kill each other, but that could change in a heartbeat. The twins need to see him now, before they lose their chance.

It’s terrifying, to think that. Dave is indeed an hourglass filled with rocks, but even rocks wear down into sand.

Just after noon the next day, your brother, King of Derse, accompanies you to the twins’ room. He brings a book, and leaves his crow feathers behind.

“Rose!” Roxy greets you like a friendly kitten, scrambling up from her seat to hug you. “You’re late,” she says chidingly, “and I was getting lonely. Dirk’s no fun.”

“Busy,” Dirk says from his place at his worktable, on the other side of the room. He doesn’t look up.

“Sorry,” you say, not meaning it at all. “But I have a reason.”

Roxy still attached, you step into the room and reveal your brother, King of Derse, hovering awkwardly in the doorway.

“Hey,” he says, voice just barely too quiet. “Thought it was time to come say hi.”

Roxy is like a friendly kitten, in all respects. A near-stranger walks in and she breaks away from you, bounds up to him and wraps herself around him.

Dave looks uncertain, stuck in her hug, slightly off balance and completely out of his depth. “Hey Rox,” he says softly, smiling as he wraps an arm around her shoulders.

“You hug like a wimp,” Roxy tells him without hesitation, and hugs his waist until you swear you hear something crack.

Dave just grins, though, and drops his book on the ground to pick her up with ease. “And you hug like a monster. It’s good to meet you, Roxy.”

"N _eeeerd,"_  Roxy says in his face, and squirms in his grasp until he puts her down.

You wonder how on Skaia you ever thought Roxy seemed older than her age. If anything, she’s acting younger now.

Dirk’s chair creaks as he shifts in it, looking back towards Dave with wide amber eyes. There is a moment of silence, when Dave looks at Dirk and Dirk looks at Dave and nobody says anything.

“You’re both losers,” Roxy says by means of introductions. “Rose, you owe me a knitting lesson.”

You blink, and exhale a short laugh. “I left my yarn and needles back in my room.”

“Then let’s go,” Roxy tells you, and is out the door before you can protest.

In one motion, Dave and Dirk look helplessly to you.

“I’m sorry,” you tell them with a shrug. “I honestly think she’s the smartest one here.”

And you leave.

Roxy is waiting at the end of the hall, looking strangely somber for all the energy she’d had a moment ago.

“How’d I do?” she asks, like you’re about to announce her score.

“That was--” you freeze for a moment, somehow surprised you didn’t catch it. A laugh escapes you before you can stop it, and Roxy looks surprised for a brief moment.

“An act,” she finishes for you, since you don’t seem inclined to say it. “Dave’s a bit like Dirky: leave him and he’ll flounder till he goes under.”

That is perhaps too accurate for your brother.

“So I helped things,” Roxy says, then winces. “Then left them.”

“But they’re together,” you point out. Roxy pulled that string so skillfully none of you had noticed until she’d unraveled the whole sweater. She has a gift with people you have never seen.

“I guess,” she says. “I did actually want that knitting lesson, though.”

You smile, a small genuine thing Roxy can get from you far too easily.

“Of course,” you tell her. “Actually, I have something I’ve been working on since you got here, if you’d like it.”

“Oooh, presents,” Roxy says, and laughter bubbles from her mouth. She is such a happy creature; you are so scared of what Derse will do to her bright smile, her strong voice.

When you reach your rooms, you’re almost sad that you haven’t wrapped it for her. You intended to, but you only finished it two days ago.

The look she gives you, when you stick your hand into the basket of yarn and needles and pull it out, makes up for the improper delivery. Roxy takes it gingerly when you offer it, running her hands over it and smiling.

“Thank you, Rose,” she says softly, sounding again far too old. “I haven’t really had presents before.” Gently, like you have not made it from strong yarn that will last years, she wraps the purple and pink scarf around her neck and beams at it.

You feel such a pang for this bright child, who shines even though her sky is starless, and you can’t help the way you pull her close. You have never wanted children, but Roxy is so beautiful that if your daughter was like her, maybe you wouldn’t mind.

“Hey there, Rosey,” she says gently, and you realize you’re crying into her hair, crying because she is so wonderful, a tiny scrap of light in this void, and because you are so scared for her future. Crying because she is so smart, and so kind, and understands you in a way even Dave can’t. Crying because Derse will never love her, because she is a useless twin sister and you _ache_ for it.

Crying because she and Dirk are so like you and your brother, King of Derse, and you do not want them to end up like you. Not your fate, no-- they deserve _better,_ everything you can give them.

“I’m sorry, Roxy,” you tell her, but do not move away. “I’m so sorry, I can’t save you.”

You feel her smile against your side, know that it won’t reach her eyes. “That’s okay,” she says quietly, into your waist. “You don’t have to. You need to be saved, first.”

Is she--

Blinking away the tears, you pull back just enough to look down at her face. You see metal in her gaze, strong steel forged from fires she will never tell you about. She burns you, so set in her determination that surely she could melt iron with the flames in her eyes. Fire and fear, a combination that could surely only be two parts Dave and three parts you.

“Roxy, love,” you tell her, scared she will grab at a future you don’t want for her, “you don’t have to fight. Not yet. Let me and Dave fight. This is our battle, not yours.”

She is so determined to meet her future head-on, take it by the horns and become a bull-rider, but you want to prevent it; you want her to be the matador and step aside before it reaches her.

“It’s mine the moment I call myself a Lalonde,” she tells you, but you see some of the fire and the fear die. She is so tense that she’s practically shaking, too ready for a destiny that you need to prevent.

“Yes,” you tell her, “little Lalonde. But you’re young and not bound here; you have a future.” You do not think of Dave, with his crow-feather collar and _I can’t_ and when will the sixth attempt be? You do not think of yourself, tied to the throne by nothing but love, and still equally unable to leave.

You think of Dirk, who has nightmares invaded by the gods and refuses to sleep because he believes being awake is an escape. You think of Roxy, with her smile and her laughter and her steel. You think of their future, away from Derse, where the stars would shine and the sun would rise in the morning.

You wonder if Roxy is a morning person, and begin to laugh.

Roxy doesn’t understand why you laugh, but she doesn’t ask, either. She just purses her lips, and looks at you with something warm in her eyes, and stays by your side.

When you are done laughing - when you are done crying - you sit down on your couch, and pull your basket towards you. You take out two balls of yarn, one orange and one red, and two pairs of knitting needles. You offer her the orange yarn and the needles.

She takes the needles, but ignores the offered yarn and reaches over your outstretched arm to take the red ball instead. You sit there, amused and still so easily surprised by her, and show her how to start a row.

Three hours later, when the darkness of Derse is beginning to grow even darker, Roxy finally declares herself done for the day. She sets down some wild thing you can’t make out, and you lower your needles and put down the beginnings of a hat for Dirk.

Roxy gets up to leave alone, but you haul yourself to your feet and join her. You still have a brother to collect, after all, if he’s moved from the place you left him at all.

Much to your shock, you enter to see Dave leaning over Dirk’s worktable. Dirk’s talking a mile a minute but Dave seems completely entranced, nodding like he understands the cables and wires Dirk jabs at with a screwdriver.

“Dirk-a-Dirk!” Roxy calls, sprinting across the room to throw herself at Dirk’s back. “How’s your machiney-man going?”

Dirk doesn’t even flinch, just cuts himself off partway through an explanation and grins at Roxy.

“Great,” he says, “I was explaining why the heart needs to be made with uranium and not a bioreactor.”

That is-- far beyond you, but even Roxy seems to nod and smile. “Yeah,” she agrees, “a reactor would be kinda unstable in something that’s supposed to move around so much.”

Dave looks at you, still standing in the doorway. He offers you a smile, so much more genuine and happy than you have seen on him in months. His book is sitting unopened on the corner of the table.

You join them, clustering around the heap of metal on the table despite having no clue what it is. That doesn’t seem to matter, though, because Roxy’s already off and running about how great her knitting lesson was, and _Look at this awesome scarf Rosey made!,_  and Dirk is smiling and listening, more involved than you’ve seen from him in the month he’s been here.

“Thanks,” you say softly to Dave, when he comes to stand next to you.

“I should be thanking you,” he says, still smiling. “Dirk’s nice. And smart.”

“Will you come with me again?” you ask him, and don’t bother to hold your breath. The smile on his face has already told you, but you’d like to hear him say it.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Maybe not tomorrow, but soon.”

Your brother, King of Derse, says goodnight to the children who have been stolen by Derse to replace him, and leaves their room smiling. His book remains on the table where he left it.

“I’ll be going too,” you inform Dirk and Roxy, who look at you now that Dave’s gone.

“Night,” Roxy says, and hurries up to give you a kiss on the cheek. You smile.

“Good night, Ms. Lalonde,” you tell her, and kiss her on the forehead. She disappears into her room.

Dirk comes up to you. You’re not sure what to expect, but he hugs you.

He hasn’t done that before.

“Thanks for bringing Dave,” he says, face pressed into your clothes.

“Anytime,” you tell him, and kiss the top of his head. “Good night, Mr. Lalonde.”

“Strider,” he mutters, stepping back to look you in the eyes. “I’m Dirk Strider.”

He is careful about how he says it, like you’ll get mad. Like he’s scared you’ll get mad.

Your smile is so big you think you must look like Roxy, right now.

“Thank you,” you manage around it. “Thank you, Dirk.”

He gives you a puzzled look, but lets it slide.

“Goodnight, Rose,” he says instead.

“Goodnight,” you murmur. “Goodnight, Dirk Strider.”

 

After that, the days slide by easier. Not easy - never _easy_ on Derse, no, but easier. You and Dave busy yourselves with Dirk and Roxy, ingrain them into what had previously been your tight-knit family of two.

Dave no longer worries about you leaving him. If anything, you’re worried because he is so much stronger, even without you by his side. Dirk and Roxy have been good for him, and he is not wholly dependant on you anymore.

You can’t tell if that makes you happy, or sad.

Days flicker into weeks, into months, until you realize four years have passed and you and Dave are twenty-four, and Roxy and Dirk are eighteen and smarter than ever.

Your Sight is gone, long-dead you are sure, and you don’t mourn it. With Roxy and Dirk, even though the skies of Derse are no brighter than they were four years ago, the future is hopeful. Dirk is smart, almost self-destructively so; Roxy is clever, skillfully so. Dave is your brother, King of Derse, and for once his title does not weigh on you like a forced reminder.

And you are Rose Lalonde, the spare.

You were an abandoned child, in the streets of an unforgiving town on Skaia. You became a child of Derse, when you were taken. Then you were the unloved twin sister of the heir. And then the unloved twin sister of the King. And now, you are too smart for Derse, too smart for your own good-- yet still you are useless to Derse, a Sight-blind Seer.

Or, you thought you were.

Four years, one month, and three days after you last Saw, you fall asleep sitting next to Roxy on her couch.

And you See.

This time, it is-- unusual. Was it always like this? You struggle to remember; you can’t tell whose eyes these are, and it’s disorientating.

A creature, with a completely white, blank, spherical head and white suit, taps at your face as though you were a fish tank.

“Ah, Ms. Lalonde,” it says pleasantly, in a disembodied masculine voice. You feel a rush of panic-- why can he see you? Is he a Seer? You need to leave.

You go to pull away, fade to inky blackness and wake up, but he grabs at either side of where your head would be and you can’t. You just-- can’t.

“I do hate to be impolite, Ms. Lalonde,” he tells you, “but I’m afraid I can’t let you go just yet. There’s something here you will see.”

You have no choice; as a Seer, you are voiceless. You can only sit in frustrated, fearful silence and let him lift you -- what _are_ you? -- off a table and take you into another room.

There, you see two Dersite carapacians sitting at a table. One is dressed in a messy combo of black and purple, with some red; it is much more patchwork than you see around the castle, but you know many carapacians dress this way.

They are talking in low voices. They give no sign of surprise as the cue-ball-headed man enters, carrying whatever you are. He approaches the table, and they fall silent just as you come within earshot.

You are set down on the table. You must be very small-- is that a hand? The cue-ball-headed man has a hand on top of you. Is it to keep you still?

“At this point in time, Ms. Lalonde, you are wondering what you are, and have been for a while.” He speaks from somewhere behind you, voice surprisingly clear compared to most things you See. “You are a crystal ball. It is a particularly good conduit for Seers, and was the only thing that would be able to restore your Sight, however temporarily.”

So-- your Sight isn’t back, not really. That’s quite disappointing, but not the issue right now.

“Doc, how much do you need to tell her?” One of the carapacians, the patchwork one, speaks up. “Surely she doesn’t need to know everything.”

“She does, or she won’t trust us.” Doc, the cue-ball man apparently, moves you so you can See both Dersites.

The second carapacian wears a wide-brimmed hat with the number eight, and a dark velvet dress. Snowman smiles at you, a small, private thing. “Hello,” she says quietly.

You try and leave, get out, get up. You can’t, and the thought terrifies you. How long will you be stuck here, in this crystal ball?

“Snowman works for me now,” Doc tells you. “I came into leadership of her group, the Felt, about two years ago. She’s quite smart, and I wish I could say she regrets trying to poison you, but that would be a lie.”

You have no reason to trust _any_ of them. What do they want from you?

“Cut the chatter,” the other carapacian says. “Rose Lalonde, we brought you here to get you off-planet.”

Are you-- not on Derse? You have to be. How far can your Sight go? Or do they mean they want to help you _leave_ Derse?

“Snowman and I have spent the past year assembling a network that can get people out of Derse,” Doc tells you. “We’ve only waited this long to contact you because of the particular hold Derse’s planetary guards have on your brother.”

Snowman speaks up. “We have another Seer. She can lift the bonds long enough to get him out of their reach.”

“Now you want to know why you would trust us, because our plans seem possible,” Doc says. “It’s quite simple, really-- how else would you get out? The eldritch beings in the Furthest Ring - Derse’s gods, as they’re called - are too vigilant, but they won’t see this coming.”

Snowman smiles at you, as if sensing your confusion. “He’s Doc Scratch. Mostly omniscient, very powerful. Never lies.”

“Do you trust us enough now?” The other Dersite carapacian joins in, then. “You won’t get a second chance at this, Lalonde. Your fading Sight might not be able to support...” His voice begins to grow quieter, indistinct, as the room darkens.

“Rose!” You hear Roxy call you. You are torn-- you could try to stay or try to go. With Roxy and Dirk and Dave you’ll be safe, but with Doc Scratch and Snowman and the Felt you have the chance to save them.

You don’t get to make the choice.

“Don’t leave us just yet, Ms. Lalonde,” Doc Scratch says firmly, and you snap back into place in the room with Snowman and the carapacian. “Your siblings have realized you’re not waking up, but I’m afraid I’ll have to put you in a smidge of danger if you want our help.”

 _Yes,_  you try to think at him. Yes, because your siblings are calling you at one end of the line and Doc Scratch holds you with painfully tight grip at the other. Yes, because if you stay much longer your mind will lose hold of your body and you’ll be stuck in this crystal ball.

“Take a trip to a small farming village, northeast. It is called Reach. You are going there for hunting, and because you are scared of assassination attempts. You will take a large band of guards, but will go hunting just you four. Four miles north of Reach, the Felt will be waiting. They will appear to kidnap you and get you to us, where the things in the Furthest Reach can’t find David,” Doc explains quickly. It sounds less like he is telling you what to do, and more like he is telling a story. “From there, we can get you out.”

“I’m glad I didn’t kill you, Ms. Lalonde,” Snowman says with a lazy smirk, and Doc releases his grip.

There is a moment in-between, when you have left Doc Scratch’s end and not quite arrived at Roxy’s. You can feel the presence of the Dersite gods, angry that you’ve Seen in spite of their power. Their strength is overwhelming in this void, gray shapes in the dark.

You muster all the mental strength you can, and flip them off.

Like that, you snap back to Roxy with tears running over her cheeks and Dirk, who is hunched over in his chair, staring down at his shaking hands.

“Shh,” you say, more on instinct than anything. You pull Roxy close and run a hand through her hair. She puts up no resistance, despite being your height and stronger, and sinks into your side.

“Dirk,” you call across the room softly. “Dirk, I’m alright. Come here.”

He does, like a child, and curls in close to you on your other side.

“Sorry,” you say to them. “I was busy scheming.”

Dirk huffs a laugh into your shoulder, and you feel Roxy smile.

“Promise me you’ll wake up next time?” Roxy asks quietly.

“Promise,” you say. You have a feeling that promise will not last.

You do not tell them what you Saw.

You bring that up first with your brother, King of Derse. You don’t tell him everything; you tell him about Scratch, Snowman, the Seer they supposedly have. You tell him they want to get all of you free.

“Can’t trust them,” he says automatically. “Rose, this Snowman tried to _kill_ you.”

“It was you she was trying to kill,” you tell him.

“That makes that shit _worse,"_  Dave insists. “They’ve got a troll Seer! Who knows what shit they could mess up, kicking dust up in my head and junk.”

“Seers can’t do that,” you remind him. “They’re not brain-editors, Dave, they’re oracles. Quite a big difference.”

“We can’t trust them, Rose,” Dave tells you. “They’re lying, have to be.”

He is uncertain, scared, in a way you have not seen in four years.

“Scratch _knew,"_  you say. “He knew we’d go with them because we have no other route.”

“We can find another way,” Dave insists. He always demands that you can wait, that time is not a resource you’re short on. You don’t understand how he expects to know that.

“We can’t just wait around and expect the twenty-third try to be unsuccessful,” you warn. The number of potential assassins unsettles you, but not as much as the early attempts did.

Derse’s longest-lived king lasted one hundred and forty-three attempts. The one hundred and forty-fourth was his own son. The thought terrifies you, still, that Dave might have to survive that many tries. The fear only gets worse when you think that one of them might be successful.

“Well, how do we avoid the twenty-third then? We can’t go with them, Rose.”

You swallow and try to ignore the way your chest aches as you speak.

“We should take a vacation. Away from the castle, away from the assassins.”

Dave gives you a weird look. “You’re willing to give up on it? Just like that?”

“You said no,” you lie. Lie, lie, lie. You hate that Dave can’t always see through you. You hate that you can still manipulate him, when your brother is King of Derse and should _know_ not to trust you.

You hate that he shouldn’t trust you.

He doesn’t seem entirely convinced, but he nods. “Anything, as long as we don’t have to go with _them_.”

You feel like being sick. “Sure,” you say instead. “It’ll throw them off. We won’t tell anyone but your advisors where we’re going.”

Dave glances at you. “Where _will_ we be going? All four of us?”

You force a laugh, and it sounds so natural you hate yourself for it. “Of course. You think we could leave Rox and Dirk behind?”

Dave smiles, though it is a bit thin. “True. Want me to find a place?”

“No,” you lie easily. “I can find a place, you’ve got things to do.”

You know a place.

Reach.

 

* * *

 

 

You wake up two weeks later with an impending sense of doom.

That’s not a good start to your vacation.

Dave’s made arrangements; only a handful within the castle know, and they’re sworn to secrecy. Of course that doesn’t mean much, but it’s the best you can get on Derse.

Sixteen of Dave’s best guards are woken up at what would be dawn. They have had no forewarning; they’re not trusted enough. They are given fifteen minutes to collect their things for a week and a half-long trip as an escort. They are not told who they are escorting.

This is all by your insistence. Perhaps it is only a ruse that you’re going to avoid assassins, but you see no reason to taunt the assassins.

Besides, you’re the only one who knows it’s a ruse.

Dave is still achingly oblivious, and so is Roxy. They’re both so happy-- they’ve never been far from the castle grounds before, and Reach is a whole two days’ ride away. Dirk is more suspicious, but even he seems painfully happy.

In other words?

You really, really, hate yourself.

You and your siblings leave half an hour after would-be-dawnbreak.

Your brother, King of Derse, rides in a dark violet cloak. Roxy has eagerly taken up a patchwork cloak, as many carapacians wear, and she’s forced one on Dirk too. On his head, Dave is wearing a ridiculous red knitted wizard’s hat. It’s the one Roxy spent months working on and much to his dismay, Dave’s advisors don’t let him wear it around the castle.

You know Dirk has the orange hat you knitted for him, but he never seems to wear it. You’d be hurt, but Roxy’s informed you that he simply brings it everywhere rather than wearing it. Ridiculous, but very Dirk.

You are wearing a simple black cloak, with a bright violet stripe around the bottom. Each of you have a clasp to keep your cloak tied, emblazoned with your royal symbol; Dave’s disc, Dirk’s hat, and you and Roxy have your self-assigned symbols of an eldritch horror and a four-eyed cat.

To say it in plainer terms, you’re really not blending in very well.

You ride out with your sixteen guards at a pace that means it will not matter what you’re wearing, because no carapacian would be able to make out any details.  Dave and Dirk and Roxy all chat happily, glad to be free of the castle’s oppression.

You sit in silence, feeling sick, hating yourself, and hunch a little closer to your horse’s neck.

“Rose, cheer up,” Dave eventually calls over, when your pace has slowed and you’re out of the city limits. “This was your idea, don’t be so glum.”

You flash a smile, worried it’s too many teeth and not enough happiness. “Sorry,” you say. “I haven’t ridden in ages, I’m getting used to it again.”

You haven’t ridden since you were seventeen, before Dave was king, when he had time to badger your chaperones into letting you do things with him.

Dave just nods understandingly, and turns back to yell at Roxy, who is standing up on her horse’s back while Dirk laughs at her.

You don’t know how on Earth Roxy learned to do that, and you’re not sure you want to.

Most of your travel passes like that. You make camp that night, all four of you shoved together into one big family pig-pile. You feel undeserving of your place, with Roxy and Dirk tucked against your side.

The next night, you arrive at Reach.

For five days, all your siblings want to do is go sightseeing. They visit every place they can, talk to everyone who doesn’t collapse at the sight of them, and do such a large amount of dumb things you are yet again surprised to find every single dumb thing endearing.

On the morning of the sixth day, they are finally tired of sightseeing. It is just barely morning, before Derse’s dark night becomes Derse’s slightly less dark day, when you suggest hunting.

Roxy scowls at the idea. “These dumb guards’ll scare everything away.”

“Not if we go without them,” you offer quietly. You hate yourself more and more for every word. You hate yourself for not having enjoyed the past six days, or the journey here, or your two weeks in the castle before you left. It may very well be the last chance you have to enjoy anything on Derse with your family.

So, though Dave is suspicious and his suspicion makes Dirk suspicious, you manage to convince them to go hunting without any guards. You promise yourself you will enjoy it.

So you tell your last lie, and promise yourself it will be the last.

“I’ve heard there’s good hunting, a few miles north,” you tell them.

“How do you know that?” Dirk asks.

You smile mysteriously, and do your best to fend off the guilt. “I have my ways,” you say.

You all drape yourself in cloaks, with bows and swords and daggers, and ride off.

And-- you _do_ have fun. Roxy can’t track for her life, but she keeps getting squirrels pinned to trees by their tails. Dave refuses to hunt, and talks with you and Dirk for most of it. Dirk alternates between hanging back with you and charging forth with Roxy; he seems to be the best hunter and tracker, out of all of you.

“Thanks for this, Rose,” Dave tells you with a fond smile, and you open your mouth to reply when you have that feeling of impending doom again.

Coincidentally, that is when your pleasant day goes to shit.

You hear Roxy shout first. You glance ahead; she’s got an arrow nocked, pointed at a tiny green-skinned creature in a yellow hat.

You recognize him immediately for a member of the Felt, and your stomach drops past your toes.

Then Dirk calls your name, try to calm his horse as three more rise up ahead of the beast. One is huge, with a red-and-white striped hat, and he grabs Dirk’s reins in one hand.

Dave gives you a sharp, concerned look, and draws his sword. The moment the blade is out, six more of the Felt appear. You struggle to count them; their hats are not numbered in order, a mess of color and movement and you hear Roxy scream.

Two more green creatures have appeared, wide and hunched, to lift her off her horse. She kicks and bites and slashes with her dagger, but the Felt just grab at her and hold her still, don’t hurt her.

You are lifted off your horse by a tall member of the Felt with the number fourteen on his hat and a bag of coins in one hand. You wish you knew their names; this one does not seem particularly rough with you, but he tucks his arm around your waist and doesn’t let go.

Dave is trying desperately to fight them, but there are simply so many, and their fighting seems to have no rhyme or reason. Roxy is struggling in the corner of your eye, but someone must have a hand over (or in) her mouth because you can’t hear her. The Felt member holding you passes a few coins to the tiny creature beside him, who has a purple hat, and he flips them.

They must have some magic, because like clockwork three more Felt appear as they hit the ground, and take off running in Dirk’s direction.

It breaks your heart to see your siblings fighting like this, but when you open your mouth to yell at the one holding you, the small one with the yellow hat is there, a felty green hand over your mouth.

Their skin literally feels like felt. You are so startled that you forget to scream. When you remember, you try to yell past the hand, but you have hardly drawn breath before the yellow-hatted one hits you, just hard enough to hurt.

Instead, you close your eyes so you don’t have to watch, and try not to hear Dave and Dirk crying out. You don’t hear Roxy, but that is so concerning that you just have to open your eyes again.

The first thing you see is Dave, glancing over his shoulder at you - you, who has gone limp and offered no resistance and did not seem surprised - and he's frozen with fear and betrayal and _agony,_  and you ache somewhere you doubt will ever heal.

You close your eyes, and try not to hear anything ever again.

 

* * *

 

 

“Ms. Lalonde, I do apologize for the journey,” a woman is saying. Snowman. Snowman is saying.

You finally blink open your eyes. The journey was _agonizing;_  the Felt walked, didn’t talk, and kept the four of you bound and silent and blinded. It was, to all intents and purposes, a kidnapping.

You thought you felt guilty for all the times you’ve manipulated Dave in the past. This manipulation, with week-long lies and half-truths and intentional misleadings, has left you so guilty you think your heart has rotted from the inside out and left you an empty husk incapable of love.

“It could’ve been nicer,” you say instead of the thousand self-hating remarks you think of.

Your siblings are in the arms of the Felt behind you, gagged and blinded and bound by strong green limbs. Roxy is thrashing, again, at the sound of voices. Dirk is glaring in no specific direction, unable to turn his head to glare at one particular thing.

Dave is completely limp. You can’t see his face. That, of all of them, is most concerning.

“Scratch is in that room,” Snowman tells you, and points towards a door to your right.

You are in the room where you last Saw her. The walls are green, and so is the furniture, and the decorations. It’s like you’re in an elegantly furnished house, except everything is green.

You wonder how you missed this last time you Saw it.

“He’s expecting me?” you ask wryly. Of course he will be.

Snowman laughs, a delicate sound that is strangely entrancing. You want to ask what she was before she worked with the Felt, before she became Snowman, but now is not the time. Later.

Instead, you head towards Doc Scratch’s room.

“Ah, Ms. Lalonde,” you hear him say from inside the room, as soon as your hand touches the doorknob. “Do come in.”

It is the same room you vaguely remember Seeing. On a shelf behind the desk, there is a crystal ball that seems all too familiar.

Scratch is sitting at his desk. You get the sense that he would be smiling, if he could, so you smile politely.

“I am dreadfully sorry that things would be this way,” he begins, and gestures for you to sit in a green armchair on the other side of his desk.

“You knew Dave wouldn’t be convinced,” you say. “Why did you tell me to do it this way?”

“Because I knew it would work,” Doc Scratch says. “I am _nearly_ omniscient, Ms. Lalonde. This is not the same as completely omniscient. I cannot see every future, just the one that will happen. And this is how it would work, if it was to work.”

That makes-- an annoying amount of sense, but does not make you feel any better.

“Tell the Felt to let them go,” you say instead. Anything, to help the guilt.

Doc nods his head. He pulls out a gray typewriter - it almost looks weird, not being green - and hovers his hands above the keys for an instant. There is a blur of movement, too fast for you to catch, above the keys.

“Done,” he says, and sets the typewriter in the corner of his desk. At your look, he continues, “Time is different in the Felt Manor. That’s why the Horrorterrors in the Furthest Ring won’t be able to find Dave; he is both here and not, has been here for eternity and will never arrive. I could explain it better, but that would take more than your remaining lifespan, so I will refrain.” He tilts his head slightly, debating. “In time, a ship will arrive to take the four of you to Prospit. The crown has been informed of your wish to leave Derse, and has agreed to house you.”

You know a little about the monarchy of Prospit, mostly what you could overhear or glean from Dave’s more political moments. You know there is a new Queen, who’s been reigning for around a year and a half now. You know “the crown” is comprised of four siblings-- two families, like yours, two sets of brothers and sisters, but they’re not twins like your oddball collection.

You also know the Queen is well-loved. This, of all things, you cannot forget.

Doc Scratch gets up. “Your siblings want an explanation. Or, two do. Your brother, Dave, would not like to see you.” He dips his cue-ball head. “I’m glad you could join us at the Manor, Ms. Lalonde. We’ll cross paths when we need to.”

So you leave.

Dirk is sitting there on the floor sulking, running hands through his hair and glaring at the tiny purple-hat-wearing Felt member a few feet away. Roxy is looking ready to pick a fight with Snowman, which would by no means end well. Dave is curled up very small with his forehead on his knees.

Aside from Snowman and the purple-hat-wearing creature, all of the members of the Felt have left.

“Roxy, Dirk, Dave,” you say, and don’t have to pretend to be relieved to see them moving. You rush forward, crouch, and sweep them into your arms, all three of them at once.

Nobody hugs you back, so you awkwardly shuffle back and rise to your feet.

Dirk is regarding you with suspicion, and Roxy is looking like she’d rather punch you than Snowman. Dave looks at no one and says nothing.

“You tricked us,” Dirk says, and the betrayed tone to his voice does nothing to help the twisting in your gut.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, “but I had to. You wouldn’t have come otherwise.”

“Okay,” Roxy says, and the steel you have seen before in her is terrifying when pointed at you. “Next question: _why_ did you trick us?”

Your words blend together as they spill out; you are desperate to excuse yourself from their hatred. “They can get us out of Derse, they were the only way I could see, I had to trust them because we didn’t have _time."_

“We had all the time in the world,” Dave says, and he is broken. He is so very broken, broken like Derse has never been able to break him, and it’s _your_ fault.

He is wearing his crow feathers beneath his cloak, and they are crumpled and bent from being handled by the none-too-gentle Felt.

Your brother, King of Derse, lifts his head and looks at you with such hatred that you are forced to look away.

You are ashamed of what you have become.

“We have rooms Doc Scratch has had prepared for years,” Snowman interrupts, taking pity on you. “Dave, Itchy can show you yours,” and the small Felt member with the one on his yellow hat appears suddenly, buzzing in place, beside Dave, “Roxy, you and Dirk can follow Clover,” and the Felt beside Dirk, with the four on his purple hat, jumps excitedly, “and Ms. Lalonde, if you’ll follow me.”

Dave gets to his feet, does not look at you or Dirk or Roxy, and trails after Itchy, who appears at intermittent points leading down the hallway, vibrating in place.

Dirk stands, tries to kick Clover, but somehow misses and fall on his face. It does not seem feasible, but neither Clover nor Snowman seem surprised.

“You won’t be able to hurt Clover,” Snowman belatedly informs him. “He’s very lucky.”

Clover nods, and patters off down after Dave. Dirk and Roxy look at each other, then at you, and follow him.

Snowman gestures for you to follow, and takes you in the opposite direction.

“These rooms were arranged for you,” Snowman tells you. “I had to instruct them how to do it-- leprechauns don’t sleep. Except for Doze, but he’s asleep regardless of what’s happening.”

She leads you into a room that is identical to your room at the castle, but green. Surprisingly, this does not surprise you in the least.

“How long will we be here?” you ask her. She, at least, seems reasonable.

Snowman shrugs. “A month, maybe. Probably less.”

You settle on your green bed, distracted by the way you and she offset everything else in the room. “Who did you used to be?” you let yourself ask, before you can stop yourself. Anything, to take your mind off this gnawing guilt.

Snowman smiles. You are starting to wonder if she smiles because she’s happy, or because she thinks it’s fitting.

“I was the last Black Queen Derse ever had,” she tells you. “The last carapacian, the last woman. I’m sorry you never got the chance; you really would’ve made something of yourself.”

“You would’ve tried to kill me,” you point out.

Her smile grows. “Yes, I suppose I would have.”

“So-- if I can ask, who are you now?”

And like that, her smile vanishes. “I’m Snowman, the eight ball. The one to end the game. Aside from Crowbar, I’m Scratch’s second-hand, if that helps.”

“The one to end the game?” That is far too cryptic for you to leave alone. The look she gives you makes you think that it may have been an intentional trap.

“My life is tied to this universe,” she tells you simply. “The Felt would do anything to protect me, and nobody wants to fight me. I die: so does the world. The eight ball.”

Oh. That is uniquely terrifying, but at least distracts you somewhat from the guilt.

She smiles again. It is thin, and reminds you of a knife. “Did that help at all?”

“Help what?” you have to ask, because surely your guilt is buried beneath so many masks no one but your siblings could see it.

Snowman laughs, not mockingly-- just laughter. “Your guilt is for the world to see, Rose Lalonde. Careful someone does not use it against you.”

And then this eight ball, this Black Queen with the stars in her dress and the universe in her blood, leaves you alone with your guilt and your fear.

 

* * *

 

 

Clover visits you, sometimes. You think Snowman sends him to keep you company. She tried introducing you to all of the Felt, and you nodded and smiled and haven’t seen them since.

By your count -- time does not pass normally in the Felt Manor, and the windows are dark and reveal no outside world you can see -- you have been here almost two weeks. Sometimes, you go for walks through the halls to get lost and have to be retrieved by Trace, who you now know to be the third Felt member and has the power to follow your past footsteps. More often, you sit in your room and knit, or read.

Aside from Clover, who will sit and watch you knit, and Trace, who finds you when you’re lost, you do not see anyone or speak to anyone. None of your siblings make any noticeable attempt to reach you, and Scratch and Snowman do not cross your path.

Actually, Clover and Trace have not been the only ones. Once, you showed Clover a gift of yours, from Roxy -- a wide purple sash, beautifully crocheted -- that had torn, and he led you to Stitch, who is apparently their tailor and medic. Stitch spent nine minutes with needle and thread, and gave it back to you good as new.

So, three members of the Felt. That is a depressingly sad number of a depressingly quiet group of leprechauns, so you’d really rather not dwell on it.

You are starting to worry that you’re depressed. The fact that leaving your bed feels more like dying and less like productivity is not a good sign.

You get up anyway. Your guilt does not let you do nothing, even if you want to. You go to pick up your needles, and sit on your green couch, and Clover is there.

“Hello,” you greet him. He nods happily and sits in front of you, on the coffee table.

More for fun than anything, you attempt to stab him in the eye with one of your knitting needles. You miss, unsurprisingly, and instead the knitting needle goes flying out of your hand and across the room.

“Could you get that?” you ask him, in the exact same tone you greeted him with.

Clover gets up quite happily, and returns it to you. You thank him politely and go back to your knitting. He goes back to sitting on your coffee table and watching you. It’s an odd sort of peace, but you’ll take it. He seems to be the only one you’re even partially at peace with, anyway.

Suddenly the Felt member you recall as Eggs is there. He’s holding his timer, which should probably have some significance. Clover is immediately excited, anyway. Eggs makes a few gestures and Clover nods.

Clover points at your sash, the one Roxy knitted, then at your forehead. He runs in circles on your coffee table and then looks at you expectantly.

Eggs turns his timer and disappears. Message delivered? You aren’t sure.

Then Roxy opens your door, and suddenly the message makes sense.

Her face is determined, but upon seeing you she seems to lose that determination. Roxy stops short in your doorway, looking at you helplessly.

“Roxy,” you say, “how nice to see you.” You inwardly flinch at how passive-aggressive you sound.

Roxy huffs, and throws herself on the couch beside you. “Do you have any idea how hard this place is to find? You’re so far away, Rosey.”

“Are you and Dirk and Dave next to each other?” The thought hurts more than you’ll admit. “You should’ve asked Fin, he could’ve brought you here.”

Roxy gives you a blank look. You roll your eyes. “He’s five. Orange hat? He can see where you’ll go in the future.”

She shrugs. “Dirk’s the one makin’ friends, I haven’t seen any of ‘em since Clover left us. Glad to see you’re making new friends.”

You are both barely skirting the issue. And then Roxy slaps you in the face with it.

“Dave’s not himself,” she tells you bluntly. “He hardly talks to me or Dirk.”

You sigh, and hand your needles to Clover. He puts them in your new knitting basket, which is green and filled with mostly green yarn, and swiftly exits.

“I-- I messed up,” you tell Roxy. You bite your lip. “That’s not easy for me to say. But,” you cut Roxy off before she can speak, “I don’t regret it. I’m guilty as shit and I hate myself, but I’d do it again.”

Saying that is oddly freeing. The guilt is lessened, though the self-hatred is still going strong.

“That’s okay,” Roxy says. “I found Scratch’s office yesterday. Two things: one, ouch, he’s a creep, and two, I get why you did it.”

“What about--” and you force yourself to not say it.

“Dirk gets it, now that he knows why,” she tells you. “Dave-- Dave’s door is locked.”

You no longer try to hide it. You cover your face with your hands, curl up small, and you cry.

And Roxy, this bright star, your bright sister, just tucks you in against her side like you did when she was younger, and runs her fingers through your hair, and lets you break.

She is two parts Dave and three parts you-- but she is all parts her, in every way, she is five parts Roxy and you are a fool for ever thinking she was like you. She doesn’t share your weakness, the rot in your heart, the guilt in your too-smart head.

Your little sister holds you, and she lets you break because that is maybe what you need, right now. You need to break so you can dig the rot out of your core and fix yourself, and maybe stay fixed this time.

Roxy doesn’t say a word, but when you start sobbing, hiccups and gasping for air, she does slide one hand down, across your back, to tangle your fingers with hers. She rocks you against her, your little sister cradling you like a child, and hums a small tune that is perhaps a Skaian lullabye. You think that the sound is too fragile for all her strength, but it helps. She only goes silent again when your tears have stopped and you are maybe - _maybe_ \- a little less broken.

“Doc said we’ll be leaving soon,” Roxy tells you. She does not let go of your hand. She does not let go of you.

“When?” you ask, hating the way your voice shakes, hating yourself for showing _weakness._ Dave is allowed to, Dirk, Roxy; you will hold them when they cry, but you are so ashamed to let them see you weak.

You feel Roxy shake her head. “He wouldn’t say. Just soon.”

“I’m glad,” you say, and tighten your grip on her fingers. “You deserve it, Rox. All of you, you deserve a new chance.”

The sad smile is evident in her voice. “So do you, Rosey.”

You don’t respond to that. You don’t need an argument, right now, so you’d agree, but--

But you can’t bring yourself to agree, when she might try and hold you to it.

You sit in silence, holding on to Roxy’s fingers, for far too long. Time may not pass normally, but you know it’s been far too long when Dirk shows up at your door with Fin next to him.

“Oh,” is all he says. He crosses the room - his walk is similar to Dave’s, how did you never notice? - and sits on the couch, on your other side.

“Thank you,” you tell him. “Thank you, Dirk, for being Dave’s and not mine.”

You do not tell him what you mean. You don’t need to; he has your intelligence, your cleverness, and while it is a weapon it is still a tool. He uses it well.

“I told you,” he says softly, “Dirk Lalonde sounds terrible.”

You are so glad to have them, these siblings that are not yours and yet you had the audacity to claim them-- let them claim _you,_ take your name and your brother’s, wear them like they’re jewelry instead of chains.

 _Necklaces instead of collars,_ you think, and are reminded of Dave’s crow feathers. Perhaps there is not so much of a difference, when it comes to your family.

Your family, all four of you. You are missing Dave; you _miss_ Dave, in a way you are sure is entitled but you cannot help it, you are selfish by nature and Dave Strider has always been _your_ brother.

“Fin,” you say, getting up, because your door is still open and Fin hasn’t left, “would you be a dear and show me to Dave’s room? I believe I’m about to head there, if you’ll so kindly follow my path.”

Time shenanigans have always been Dave’s thing. It is good, then, that you listen to his rambling so much; the paradox of being led down the path you can find because you _will_ be led down it makes sense, somehow.

Dirk and Roxy do not protest when you leave them alone in your green room, with no guide and no knowledge of how to get back to their rooms. You really do love your family, even if you forget sometimes.

You follow Fin, with his orange hat on his shark head, all the way through the Manor. It takes you an hour, you’d guess, if time existed here.

You find Eggs sitting outside a nondescript green door, holding a crumpled note. He offers it to you silently, and runs off down the hallway when you take it.

You unfold it; it’s Dave’s handwriting. It reads, _You get through to me in the end. I really do love you, Rosey._

Well. Looks like Eggs helpfully hopped back in time to give you this. You suppose he’s off to find Biscuits, because they're both morons and think the oven will actually take them forward in time.

Though-- they’re not wrong, technically. You should ask Dave if they’re wrong or not. He’ll understand the time bullshit.

You knock on his door.

It does not open. There is no response.

You kindly ask Fin to break the door down. He does, with apparent glee.

Sometimes you forget the Felt are actual gang members and not bumbling, endearing idiots. You ask Fin to leave. He does, with even more glee. You get the feeling he doesn’t like you much.

Dave is sitting with his shades on, sprawled out on his couch in a way that is painfully familiar. He does not seem surprised by your entrance; he lifts a hand and waves, but is not startled by the splintered door behind you.

“Sup,” he says, because how else would your brother, King of Derse, greet you after two long weeks of silence.

“Hello,” you reply.

His room is not familiar, not like yours. There are Prospitian banners hanging on the walls, and everything is much less over-decorated than Dersite furniture.

“You like the decor?” he asks. “Apparently, it’s from the future. When we go to Prospit. I can’t wait to see it in color.”

He sounds bitter. This is not a good way to start.

“About that.” You start regardless, sitting down on the edge of his coffee table with your dress tucked under you neatly and your hands folded prim and proper in your lap. “I’m sorry.”

He scoffs. “Sure, Rosey. Apology accepted. Can we go back to the silence?”

You ignore him. “I _am,_ Dave. I never meant to-- to do this, the silence and the betrayal. I wanted to tell you, but you didn’t trust me.”

“Oh no, I trusted you plenty. It’s _them_ I didn’t trust. Don’t.” He gestures at the broken green door behind you.

You try not to hear the past tense he uses. “I can’t undo it, Dave. I’m sorry I did it the way I did, sorry I didn’t tell you, but I’d do it again.”

“You didn’t _listen_ to me, Rose,” he says suddenly, picking up the argument you’ve been skirting. “I told you no and you did it anyway, you knew I wouldn’t like it and you _did_ it.”

There is anger in his voice, an edge to his tongue, that you have never heard before. It terrifies you, that you have broken Dave so sharply that he has more edges than he did before.

“You went against me,” he says, and he is too much King of Derse and nothing like your brother. “I trusted you but you didn’t trust _me,_ I told you we have time and you didn’t believe me, you insist--”

“And maybe if you listened to me!” you yell, before you can stop yourself. You are not prone to emotional outbursts but Dave has always been your weak spot, like you have always been his.

You force yourself to breath, try again. “And maybe if you listened to me, Dave, you could have trusted me. Because you didn’t.”

“I trusted you ple--” he starts to say, but you cut him off. He didn’t trust you enough, didn’t trust your judgement.

“Maybe it’s time someone listened to _me,"_  you say, quickly and angrily, and maybe you sound entitled but you are entitled to your own emotions if nothing else. “Derse doesn’t treat me like I matter, but you’re _better,_  Dave, and I am your godforsaken _sister_ and maybe, just maybe, would it kill you to treat me like I have an opinion and like I can actually _function on my own!"_

You both go quiet. This is your emotional quota for the day, surely. For the week. For the year if you’re lucky. The note Dave gave you from the future is crumpled in your palm, curled inside your fist.

Dave is very, very still. You’re breathing harder than you would like to admit, but all that yelling makes you short on breath. It is not a feeling you’re used to.

“Look,” he says haltingly, when it has become clear it’s his turn, “I’m-- sorry, right?” He laughs, a mockery of himself. “I can’t believe I’ve forgotten how this works. How long’s it been, Rosey?”

You’re not sure what he’s asking. You’re like Dirk, not Roxy; you shatter people apart, split their souls, not stitch them at the seams and make them whole.

You think, with a part of you that you don’t want to hear, that he means: _How long has it been since I’ve apologized for not listening?_

“Too long,” you tell him quietly. “Four seconds, four years, too long.”

Dave barks out a laugh that sounds painful with the way it drags itself from his mouth. “Too right,” he agrees. “I won’t say you’re right about this, Rosey. I can’t really say I’m sorry for being a dick for this long. But I love you.”

You smile. “I can’t say I’m sorry for doing it. I won’t say I’d go back, if I could.”

You slide forward, off the table, and wrap your arms around him. “Love you too, Dave.”

It’s not an apology. In fact, despite you both saying _sorry_ and trying to mean it, it is the opposite of an apology. He is King and you would be Queen; you are not apologizers, either of you. You are fighters, and you, Rose Lalonde, are surely stupider than you’d ever guess, if you mistook his fire for fear.

Your brother, King of Derse, is stronger than you ever expected. He still manages to surprise you, twenty-four years later, two weeks after you lied to his face and did not apologize.

This is a good thing.

Eggs appears in the doorway, apparently drawn by your shouting. He is holding his egg timer. You get up, sit on the coffee table again, and beckon him in.

You hand him the note he gave you, from Dave. “Go back as far as you need to,” you tell him. “Give this to me, before I come in here.”

Dave raises an eyebrow as Eggs turns the timer and disappears. “What was that?”

“A little pick-me-up,” you tell him. “From you.”

And that, ladies and leprechauns, is how you create a paradox.

Like clockwork, the next person appears in the doorway. You suspect he isn’t drawn in by the shouting, just his own predestination.

“I believe it’s time you'll be going,” Doc Scratch says calmly, then glances at his watch. Its hands are spinning wildly in circles, unable to figure out the time. “Or, to be entirely truthful, you will be leaving in five minutes, when Roxy and Dirk arrive with Ms. Lalonde’s things. Have a safe trip.”

He leaves.

“Snowman will be along with them!” you hear him call, from down the hallway. “She knows.”

She knows _what,_ he doesn’t say, but Dave glances at you and you shrug. It’s Doc Scratch.

“Five minutes to pack everything you need,” you tell Dave, who is making no move to act on this information.

He shrugs, and pats your hand. “I have everything I need right here, Ms. Lalonde. Thanks for the advice.”

You laugh.

Sometimes you miss him, this brother of yours.

You sit quietly beside him for five minutes, waiting. There is no hurry, not yet; you are not forgiven and maybe you never will be, but you did not ask for forgiveness.

You only asked for your brother back, and here he is.

“Ms. Lalonde, Mr. Strider.” Snowman stands in the doorway, holding a cigarette holder and looking as if she has all the time in the world.

Behind her, the frazzled looks Roxy and Dirk give you suggests she might not be right.

Dave is perhaps more alert than you, and he is on his feet in the blink of an eye. “Who’s here?” he asks, like it’s obvious someone is.

Snowman gives him a long, slow look, and takes a drag from her cigarette. You didn’t realize she smoked. It is an odd thought, that your universe smokes. You try not to dwell on it.

“Spades Slick,” she finally replies, “and his crew.”

Dave gives you a confused look, which you return.

Snowman holds out her arm. Two bags dangle off it; they look far too heavy for her thin limbs, but she supports their weight with ease.

“One for you and one for Dave,” she tells you, when you get up and head for the door. “They have anything Scratch knew was important, and a change of passably-Prospitian attire. You’ll have to change on the way.” Dave takes them from her, a backpack for him and an over-the-shoulder bag for you.

Dave slings his backpack over one arm, his other hand reaching for the sword that isn’t there. Snowman ignores the questioning look he gives her, and turns to you. “Ms. Lalonde, you know the manor best. I’d lend you Fin, but he’s-- busy. Take them out the back way.”

“The back way?” You may know the manor best, but that doesn’t mean you _know_ it. You don’t--

Except suddenly you do. You know exactly what she means when she says _the back way,_ because it’s the way you came in. It’s the only door in the manor that you have regularly found Felt members outside, because you were never allowed to pass through it.

Snowman gives you a smile, airy and confident in a way you have never seen her. “Do try to avoid running into Spades. You’d know him as Jack Noir, I believe-- he really doesn’t like the Felt, or me.”

You stare at her. Jack Noir, as in Dave’s Archagent? Is there another, because surely you must be mistaken.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Snowman says, and turns her back, “I have a very black date to keep.”

She saunters off down the hallway, trailing smoke and oozing appeal, until her form fades to black and she quite literally vanishes into the manor.

All of your siblings stare at you. You wish, quietly, that they wouldn’t put you in charge.

“Okay,” you say, and take your bag from Dave. Dirk, predictably, also has a backpack, and Roxy has a stylish hip-bag slung low on her waist. “It’s this way.”

And you know which way it is, to your surprise. The journey takes you maybe half an hour; you hear gunshots, sometimes, and yelling, and screaming, but you try not to listen.

Nearer the door, you find gun-shattered clocks and the occasional patch of blood. You find yourself hoping it does not belong to any of the Felt, despite having lived with Spades Slick and his “crew” for more years than you care to count.

Then you are in the room you remember Seeing, with Snowman and a carapacian and Scratch all around a table. The door you think you vaguely remember coming in is right there; not pausing to think, you throw it open.

Sitting outside, huge even on the expansive lawn, is a large golden ship. You have heard of these; they are Prospitian, a common mode of transport for those who want to go to Skaia, or travel around on Skaia. Derse does not believe in them-- they have a few, perhaps, for hunters or higher-ups, but nowhere near Prospit’s fleet.

The carapacian in patchwork you remember from your dream is there, hands loosely wrapped around a broadsword. He relaxes when he sees it’s you.

“Get on,” he tells you. “I don’t know how much longer--”

And then Spades Slick bursts through the door.

He is not quite like the Jack Noir you remember; perhaps you are looking at him differently, now, but his gaze is cruel and his teeth are sharp when he grins wildly.

Dave grabs Roxy and Dirk by the hands, and begins to run. The carapacian is shouting at you, and so is your family, but your world is cut down to just you and Jack Noir, for a single instant.

He lifts a pistol, aims.

And something black flickers, just to your right, and Spades snarls at it.

“Now, now, Slick, be nice,” Snowman says, and puffs out smoke in his face.

He does not seem willing to have his finger on the trigger, not when Snowman is around. He can only glare at you when Snowman gestures for you to go, because she is shielding you.

You turn and run, and do not stop until you are on board the ship. You find Dave and Dirk and Roxy, hug them and do not let go. You refuse to let go. Not yet, not when you are so close to escaping Derse.

The ship moves, then, lifting smoothly up into the sky and drifting away from the Felt Manor. You feel almost bad, to leave them in their bloody manor with the shattered clocks that would not have worked anyway, but there is nothing you can do.

Your fate is out of your hands now, and the thought should not be relieving.


	2. hatred and spares

“I’m blind,” she tells you angrily, her hands wrapped around her chains, pulling like she could somehow break them. “I can’t.”

She is the-- you do not even want to think about it, but she is the Seer they have  _ kidnapped _ to free Dave. They stole her off of Skaia, from a trollian base built in rebellion of Derse. They promise to return her after she has helped free your brother; you are not sure you trust them, this mesh of Prospitian-Dersite smugglers.

The Dersite carapacian you met with Scratch showed her to you, a week into your journey. You visit her, sometimes, when you are strong enough to bear the feeling. She doesn’t reply, a lot of the time; today is particularly bad, when she is angry enough to talk.

You do not know her name. She will not tell you.

“I’m sorry,” you tell her. “It’s not my choice.”

She sniffs, and licks the air as if she could gain something from it. “You’re a Seer,” she says, sounding startled. “That’s why you keep coming back.” Her mouth splits into a wide, sharp grin. “You’re  _ ashamed.” _

“Was a Seer,” you correct her. You fold your legs beneath you, in your dark Dersite clothes - your plain black dress, with your purple sash and your cloak - and sit on the other side of the bars.

Her grin drops away, and she sniffs. “You’re human.” Tilts her head, and then, with more surprise, “You’re  _ staying _ .”

How could you not? She’s right; you’re ashamed to see them do this to a Seer, one of your ilk, but what she cannot tell is that you are scared. Terrified, really, that someone might try and do this to you. She is a sight to behold, in black and teal-- the bold color against her gray skin, a color you have never seen on Derse. Teal bruises, teal blood, jagged teeth and sharp, broken claws.

“Why would I not?” you ask her. Why would you abandon a Seer-sister, in this dark dismal dungeon?

She scoffs. “You have a loving family. You are comfortable among the hard-shelled creatures. You do not have to sit behind bars. Why would you?”

There is no anger to her, no fire-- just a challenge, plain and simple. She grins at you, with her empty red eyes and her sharp teeth.

“Why won’t you tell me your name?” you ask instead of answering, because questions are always easier than answers.

She grins, and reaches forward as far as her chains will allow. With one sharp fingernail-claw, she scratches something into the stone in front of her.

_ T3R3Z1, _ it says. You see it for only a moment before she drags her claws across it, obscuring it.

“Hello, Terezi,” you say quietly, so the carapacian guard at the door can’t hear. “My name is Rose Lalonde.”

Terezi stiffens slightly, then laughs. “Of course you’re Rose.”

You do not understand.

“I’ve heard of you,” she continues. “Rose Lalonde, the Seer of Derse, sister of Derse’s King. Bound to the throne by nothing but love.”

She is so accurate, in words you yourself have thought, that is hurts. Does she believe you a pet of Derse, preened to See for them and never for yourself?

“I Saw my way out of there,” you say. For once, you do not have to elaborate. All Seers understand the difference between seeing and Seeing.

Terezi grins again. “You Saw it for them, didn’t you? Not yourself, oh selfless Seer.”

You are not selfless. You do not want her to think you are selfless, even for a second.

But Terezi continues. “I’m blind, Rose Lalonde. Double-blind, dumb as that is. My Sight worked  _ once _ ,” and she spits the number out, like a bad taste.

“How does Sight work when you’re blind?” you ask. It seems cruel, to ask, but you don’t know what else to say.

“Like it does when you’re not,” Terezi says mildly, “only you wake up crying.”

That is very depressing. You are sure, though, that Terezi will See again; at the very least, she will See when she needs to, when Dave is being tormented by the Horrorterrors of the Furthest Ring.

She has to, because at least one of you must be able to See.

“I’m sorry,” you say softly.

The two of you sit in silence for a while. You notice the almost-light sky outside growing darker; night, probably. You still have yet to see daylight, but Derse’s eternal darkness is slowly lessening, out here.

Dave appears in the doorway.

“Rose,” he says hesitantly, “you should come out. We’re--” and he glances uncomfortably at Terezi, “--it’s, uh, happening tomorrow.”

Right. Tomorrow is when you reach the edge of Derse’s grasp, and the days start being brighter than they are dark, and Dave is either freed or killed.

You politely excuse yourself, getting up from the floor and going to rejoin your brother, King of Derse.

Terezi smiles, a wide, cruel thing that stretches her face too far. It is like you are infinitesimal; her sightless red eyes are fixed on her scratched-out name, not on you.

You wonder, for a wild instant, if she is Seeing the future.

And Dave closes the door.

You do not sleep that night.

 

* * *

 

You get up to find Dave missing. A quick check shows that Roxy and Dirk are, too.

You rush outside, fear caught in your throat, to see them out on the open bow of the ship. Roxy and Dirk are yelling over the sound of wind. Dave is hunched over on his knees, a dark, shapeless form in his violet cloak.

You sprint towards them, not caring that you are wearing the same unwashed dress as yesterday, not caring that the wind whips your hair into your eyes and makes it hard to see. You can focus only on Dave, bent over, coughing like he’s dying. He sucks in air and whispers something unintelligible, not even English, and starts coughing again.

He’s cold to the touch when you grab his arm, and he is getting-- darker. His skin is turning grayish, white to black and it is terrifying. You don’t know what’s happening or how to help.

“He was like this when we got up,” Roxy tells you desperately, “he dragged himself out here and wouldn’t let us help.”

“We couldn’t help,” Dirk says, like he’s trying to convince himself.

A shrill scream pierces through the wind on the bow. You glance over to see Terezi, the captured troll Seer with her teal blood and teal bruises. She is being dragged between two guards holding onto her wrist chains at either end, keeping her taut between them like she’s being pulled apart. Her eyes are wide and angry, even sightless, and her mouth is twisted in a snarl.

“I’m blind, you idiots!” you hear her scream, as she is brought towards you. “I can’t See!”

She  _ has _ to. She has to See or Dave will die, he’s choking and coughing, oh god he can’t breathe, can he? Terezi  _ has _ to save him, she can’t let him do this.

“Rose, tell them!” she cries, when they’ve dragged her to you and the guards stand five feet on either side, keeping her arms open wide. She stumbles and lands on her knees feet from Dave, who is curled into a ball and coughing,  _ why can’t he stop coughing? _

“Help him, Terezi,” you say, not caring if she hears it or not over the wind. You throw yourself to her side, shake her by the shoulder. “You have to help him, I’m Sight-blind, I  _ can’t _ .”

And you can’t, it hurts but you’ve lost your Sight, you’re a Sight-blind Seer and your brother needs a Seer and he is  _ dying. _

“I can’t!” she yells at you, and she looks desperate and sad and  _ let down, _ like she can’t believe her Sight has failed her yet again. “I’m Sightless, Rose, you  _ know!” _

And the worst part is, you do, you do know. You’ve known from the moment that you saw her that your Seer-sister is Sightless and she will never See again. Something told you, something you long thought was gone, a second instinct that looked at her and said  _ no. _

It was never going to be her. She can’t save Dave, she’s never been able to. You dressed the pheasant up like a peacock and pretended you never saw through the blue paint, the blue blood.

It was never going to be Terezi, so it had to be you.

Maybe it will kill your Sight. Maybe it will kill you.

You are startled to realize that at the moment, that is not terrifying. If you are to die, at least you will die trying to protect Dave. Your success in the matter - to you, who will be dead by the end of it - does not matter all that much, and yet matters most. If you succeed, you will be delighted for the instant you are alive. If you fail, you will not have to live to mourn your brother, Dave Strider.

“I’m going to See,” you warn Roxy.

You don’t know how to do this. It was never explained to you; not the way Terezi would’ve been told, probably not the way Dave would’ve been told.

There is nothing to help you but your Sight.

You close your eyes, glad your hearing is drowned in wind, and reach for the old, aching emptiness that is your Sight.

It is nothing like Seeing and more like Looking. Normally, Sight comes to you; it is an old friend, a second instinct, something you took up as easily as breathing.

This, it is fighting. This is like learning to stand up atop a horse’s back, like learning to make metal men from scraps. It is trial and error, rinse and repeat.

Like learning to be King.

You hear Dave coughing, and force yourself to Hear Dave’s coughing. Hearing has never been your strong suit, but you will need all of your senses, you think, if you are to See this.

Slowly, like going to sleep, you sink into darkness, and you do not See.

You open your eyes, and do not See.

But perhaps, this time, that is what you’re Seeing. Nothing. Because if you’ve succeeded, you are in the Furthest Ring, where nothing exists except Horrorterrors.

So you thank your Seer-sister instead, and sniff.

Like that, the images come. Huge monsters, spherical sometimes, all with many limbs and a thousand eyes, all in the dark. Hiding, gray shapes moving in a black sky.

You taste the air. These creatures gorge themselves on Derse’s stars, devour them like they have any  _ right _ to them.

You are Seeing through Dave’s eyes, and then you force yourself to Be.

That is different. For a five-letter word, Being is a lot of difference. You force Dave out of your eyes, claim them as yours, See through your eyes. It is painful, because you can feel Dave’s thoughts, for an instant: panic, hurt,  _ fear, _ fear that he is dying, fear that he will leave you, and such betrayal that even in the recesses of what must only be death, you do not want him.

You do, but you do not want him here. You want to keep him from here with all your strength, and so you evict him from the hell that is the Furthest Ring.

And then you are left to face the Horrorterrors alone, and that is worse.

That is so, so much worse.

They-- they  _ fill _ you, fill your mind overwhelmingly. Without a purpose here, without your brother, there is only the sluggish movement of large, indistinct gray shapes in darkness, and you.

They are so much larger than you, and their purpose here is so great. They, they  _ are _ gods, have the powers of gods and the wills and the lives, and you are a fool for ever thinking they were not. 

But they have let go of your brother, King of Derse. You can feel that his chains are off and he is not  _ theirs, _ not any more.

He is, at last, your brother. Period, end of sentence. You do not have to remind yourself of his position, of his chains.

Now, the gods’ attention is focused on you. You, the little mortal, the not-quite-blind-Seer who stole their King and cut his chains with nothing but your love.

So you go. You go willingly, sink into them, accept them. It would be impossible not to; you will be consumed by these gods, devoured, and your body many, many miles away will die.

The word sticks in your mind:  _ miles. _ Why does it stick? It shouldn’t. You are almost given into the gods, almost a part of them. Almost dead, and it is a relief.

_ They underestimate me by miles, but that gives me so much room to grow, _ you think.

You think of the brightest star you have ever seen on Derse: your sister, Roxy. You think of Dirk, with his sharp tongue and wit and self-destructive cleverness.

You think of Dave, drowning in violet robes that were befitting of his title but never of  _ him. _ You think of his black crown, heavy and so cruel to wear. You think of the tragedy you saw in his crow feathers, the scars on his pale hands, and you do not apologize.

You do not apologize -  _ will _ not apologize - to these gods, who have hurt you and everyone you love and still have not broken them.

You sink into the center of a god, where it is most alive, and you grab your Sight and you rip yourself apart.

It hurts, the destruction of your Sight in such a manner. You will never See again-- you doubt you will see, but if blindness is the most of your worries you will be grateful.

You tie yourself to the god you nearly gave into, and you destroy your Sight, and with it you destroy a god.

You will never be loved by Derse-- Sight-blind Seer, useless  _ unloved _ twin sister of a King. If they could only see you now: king-stealer, god-killer,  _ free. _

You will never be loved by Derse.

But, oh, will you be  _ hated. _

 

 

* * *

 

You wake up to see Terezi, at your bedside.

You are most surprised that you can actually see her - so you’re not blind, after all - rather than the fact that she’s here at all.

Speaking of  _ here, _ where are you?

The walls are golden; Prospit, then, or the ship.

You sit up.

Terezi turns her sharply in your direction. “Rose Lalonde,” she says, and the grin on her face looks nice without the malice.

“Good afternoon,” you say, looking down at your thin, thin arms and feeling just how frail you are. “Might I ask what happened, Terezi?”

“You passed the fuck out,” Terezi explains bluntly. “You Saw, Rose, I  _ felt _ it. You Saw and then you left. Just-- gone. Your body hit the ground when Dave stopped changing colors, and you went dark. Like, dark dark. I couldn’t smell you anymore.”

She says this like it’s normal. Like she can always smell you, like you’re supposed to know what “dark dark” means in comparison to dark.

“And then they kept saying your skin went dark,” Terezi says. “They wouldn’t let me lick it to find out but I think it was black. And your eyes were white. And you kinda smoked a little bit? You had a pulse but you weren’t breathing.”

“When?” you ask hoarsely. You don’t want to know.

Terezi swallows, but doesn’t bother to blunt the truth. “It’s been nine days.”

She leans forward and licks your hand. You are so shocked you forget to be disgusted.

“Yeah,” she says, and smiles happily, “you’re back, Ms. Ice Cream Skin.”

You cannot help but laugh.

“Okay,” she decides, then, “I’m gonna go get Davey. He’s having nap time, and since it’s only the second time in a week, a kind person would let him sleep, but,” she snorts, “I’m not a kind person.”

Terezi gets up, clacking her cane against the floor although you’re almost positive she doesn’t need it. She grabs the door handle without a problem and lets herself out.

So you went dark, then. Black skin, white eyes. A pulse, but no breathing. She couldn’t smell you; a sixth sense “smell,” maybe, like she couldn’t feel your soul in your body.

That would certainly explain the amount of effort it had taken to Be in the Furthest Ring, if you were separating your soul from your body.

Dave bursts through the door.

“Rose,” he gasps out, breathlessly, and launches himself at you.

You wrap your skinny arms around him and hug him, hold him close. You are so glad to have him, safe,  _ here. _

He is not wearing his crow feathers.

“You Saw,” he’s saying even before he pulls away to look at you, “you Saw them, didn’t you? You Saw them and you were there and you  _ stayed.” _

“You’re safe,” you tell him. He’s safe and that’s all that matters.

“What happened to you?” Dave asks.

“I killed them,” you tell him. “One of them. And I--”

You don’t know why you can’t say it. You were not a Seer, before, or so you’d thought; you’d been Sight-blind, which is not the same as Sightless. At least you’d had a right to the title of Seer, being Sight-blind.

Now, you don’t know what you are. You are not a Seer, anymore. You are not the unloved twin sister of a King; you have lost any entitlement to anything you were.

Dave’s hand curls around yours.

“Terezi told me,” he says softly. “She couldn’t smell your Sight.”

You nod. “It’s fine,” you say, hoping he believes you.

He doesn’t say anything. To your relief, any reply he would’ve eventually made is overrun when Dirk and Roxy fling themselves through the door, grinning wide and happy.

“Rosey!” Roxy yells, throwing her arms around you. She catches Dave in her radius, dragging him into the hug too.

“We made it,” she tells you. “The ship just got in contact with Prospit. They’re sending an ambassador person over as soon as they can find someone to send ‘em.”

You feel a hand on your shoulder. It’s Dirk, standing outside and looking for all the world like an abandoned puppy.

You reach around Roxy to grab him and pull him in. Realizing she’s forgotten him, Roxy disentangles an arm from the pile and drags him down into the mess of limbs and hair.

Maybe you are not a Seer anymore. Maybe you are not-- not  _ whole, _ not yourself, not useful anymore, but if your usefulness ran out you are glad that it got you this far.

Maybe you are broken, but your siblings will let you break and help you heal back into place.

The Dersite carapacian, the same one who first got you on to this ship, comes in.

“The ambassador's party is arriving in half an hour,” he says, eyeing your human hug-pile suspiciously. “You have until then to get Ms. Lalonde up, as I assume they’ll want to meet all of you.”

Dave shooes him away with a barely-free hand. Not now, not when you are all happy and safe and so nearly free.

Like Roxy was the one to drag you all into this hug, she’s the one who lets go and gives you all room to breath.

“Okay, Rosey,” she says, tone suddenly reprimanding and why is she acting like your mother? “You are not allowed to do dumb things like that  _ ever _ again without permission from the council.”

Dave and Dirk nod. You suppose your siblings would be the council, then.

“We’re all alive?” you offer halfheartedly. You know it won’t excuse you. So you sigh, and push back your sheets. “Someone help me up, I’m hungry.”

That, of course, takes any sort of tension out of the room. Roxy goes to support you, but Dirk grins at her and easily scoops you up in his arms.

“You’re a twig, Rosey,” he tells you. “Gotta eat more, don’t you know how to take care of yourself?”

You laugh, and so does he.

You are still wearing the same unwashed dress as before, but nobody seems to care when Dirk carries you swiftly into the kitchens and plonks you down next to the table. The cooks on board make no attempt to argue; Dave and Roxy flank you like a private escort.

Dirk goes off to talk to someone. You haven’t seen him this way; he is warm but confident, smiling and yet the cooks have no say in the matter. You’re grateful, at least, because it means food is swiftly set down in front of you.

You weren’t joking about being hungry-- you’re  _ starved. _ You haven’t eaten in nine days, if Terezi was telling the truth, and clearly the gods didn’t remember to feed your mortal body even if they kept it alive.

After you eat, your family escort takes you back to your room. Roxy chases Dave and Dirk away, tells them to go get changed out of their Dersite clothing, into something warm and Prospitian.

She takes your clothes out of your bag. To be honest, you haven’t looked at them yet. You saw they were golden and decided you’d keep away until you absolutely had to.

Well, now you absolutely had to.

Roxy helps you into your underwear with absolutely no shame, neatly folding your black dress and tucking it into your bag next to the black-and-violet cloak. She shakes out your Prospitian clothes, and despite the color you can’t help but be pleased.

They are nothing like your Dersite clothing, which were elegant and over-embellished, embroidery and frills and layers and layers.

These clothes are thin, transparent leggings, a long golden dress, and an orangey-gold cowl with a simple triangular edging to it. There is a cloak to match the dress, long and simple and gold, and a belt, in sun-browned leather with beautiful curving patterns faded onto it.

There is a sun emblazoned on the center, warm and bright. You do not mind these Prospitian clothes, you decide.

Roxy gets you changed quickly, and goes to find her clothes. Dave comes in when she leaves; he’s wearing gold clothing, too, but he lacks your cowl, and the edges of his cloak-scarf-thing are embroidered in bright red. There is also a faded reddish-orange gear, where you have a sun.

“Looks like they personalized this shit,” he says, smiling at you.

You head with your brother out onto the deck to greet the ambassador that will be coming.

Dirk and Roxy join you shortly, your brother with pink finishes and Roxy with navy blue. You stand there, waiting. You’re not sure why you’re all waiting, but you don’t know what’s going to happen so this seems like a good place to wait.

And then, in a blinding flash of green light, three figures appear. One is female, with long brown hair and a buck-toothed smile and glasses. She is wearing a beautiful dress that glitters black and green, and drapes all the way to the floor. Her hands are held up in a square, like she’s a child pretending to take a picture.

“It worked!” she crows, hugging the other human excitedly.

He is taller, broader. He’s got the same brown hair, the same tanned skin, same buck teeth, but he seems a little more awkward. He’s dressed in a plain green short-sleeved shirt and beige shorts. He holds himself tightly and adjusts his glasses when she lets him go.

And the third one is not even human. He’s short, shorter than the girl, with grey skin and nubby horns and red eyes. His hair is black and fluffy, and he glares at the two humans.

“I’m only here for Terezi,” he says. “These fuck-nuts better not have hurt her, or I will fucking rip their breathing tubes out through their mouths.”

The two humans seem to ignore him. They glance around, and see the four of you.

“Rose!” The girl bounces over to you. She looks about your age, but she’s acting much younger. “Dave, Roxy, Dirk! I can’t believe you made it!”

She’s talking like you’re here for a weekend visit, not as refugees. You’re not sure why that upsets you.

She sprawls into the gap between you and Dave, hugs you both. You’re about to protest when she pulls back and beams at you with all her teeth.

“I’m Jade!” she says excitedly. “Jade Harley. I’m John’s older sister.” She shakes your hand enthusiastically.

“Hello,” you say politely, and tuck your hands together and hold them in front of you like you were taught.

“Oh, and this is Jake,” Jade says, grabbing his arm from where he’s awkwardly wandered into reach and tugging him closer. “He’s my lil’ bro.”

“Hello, Ms. Lalonde,” he says sheepishly, and nods his head. Jake glances down the line of you, stiffening when he reaches Dirk. It’s gone so quickly you’re sure no one else noticed, not even Dirk who notices everything.

“And that grump,” Jade continues eagerly, pointing back towards the troll, “is Karkat! He’s staying in Prospit right now to help our alliance with the trolls on Skaia. He and Ms. Kanaya heard that Terezi got taken by someone, and we figured out who, so he’s here to get her!”

You are not sure why you expected their clothes to be bright. Maybe because of how yours look; yet here they are, a girl and a troll in black, and the boy in green and beige.

Their clothes aren’t bright-- it’s their  _ personalities. _

Or, Jade’s is. The troll is definitely a grump, to use her words.

“Where’s Terezi?” Karkat asks, looking at Dave. You are not sure why you feel the need to intervene, but you take a step towards him before Dave can speak.

“I think I know,” you tell him. You have a sinking feeling your guess will be right.

Karkat lets you lead him down into the belly of the ship. He complains and swears and mouths off humans and all their failings before you reach Terezi’s room.

It is a cell, deep within the ship. There is no guard; the door to her cell is open, and yet she sits cross-legged on the floor with her cane in front of her.

“Get up, grub-worm,” Karkat tells her roughly. Does he not realize she’s blind?

Actually, now that she has those bright red glasses, it’s hard to tell that she’s blind, especially with the way she smiles and picks herself easily off the floor and walks directly for the door, cane unused in her hand.

“Took your time, Kar-kranky,” she tells him as the two of them turn to leave. You have to hurry to follow without being left behind.

“Oh, I’m  _ sorry,” _ Karkat says sarcastically as they head back towards your family. “Sorry your note said, ‘ _ W4S K1DN4PP3D. W1LL B3 F3D. S33 YOU 1N THR33 W33KS.’ _ ”

Terezi smiles wide, showing off all of her many, many sharp teeth. “My Sight was good for something once, wasn’t it?”

You remember how angry she was, that her Sight only worked for her once. Only worked, apparently, to tell her how to get kidnapped so someone else could go See.

When you come back up, it is incredibly awkward. Jade is bouncing around Dave excitedly, apparently unable to tell he’s uncomfortable. It looks like Dirk and Jake attempted to strike up a conversation, but now Roxy is chattering happily with Jake and Dirk is hovering at her side.

“Why am I surround by helpless grubs,” Karkat grumbles. “Terezi, you’re my last hope.”

Terezi grins. “Should I be awkward too, Karkitty? Try and talk to Jake?”

Karkat laughs, albeit reluctantly. “Even you wouldn’t do that to him.”

Jade brightens up even more when she notices the three of you. “There you are! Finally, we can get going.”

Get-- get going? The ship isn’t supposed to reach Prospit for another half week, at least.

Jade doesn’t seem to realize this. She gestures you all together like she’s about to take a picture of you, holding up her fingers in that imaginary-camera way she did when she got here.

“Karkat, get closer to Rose,” she scolds, “I don’t want half of you, you can’t yell with one lung.”

Half of him? Is she  _ teleporting _ you?

“Hang on a second,” you say, even as Karkat grumbles and shuffles against your side, pressed in uncomfortably close. “Could you explain--?”

“Say cheese!” Jade yells, and sharply expands the rectangle in her fingers.

There is a blinding flash of green, and you have the strangest sensation of burning cold in your veins.

 

* * *

 

There are spires, tall and cloud-covered and bright. The ground is decadent with flowerbeds, with trees, with bushes; there is more green than you thought would fit in a city.

There are elaborate tapestries, winding staircases, wide open balconies and terraces and towers. The windows in the castle are huge and numerous, and in some halls the light shining through casts pictures of kings and queens and sunlight on the floors.

And there are golden walls, golden ceilings, golden halls.

You are on Prospit.


End file.
